


hold on to me (unsteady)

by triple_lutz



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Batfamily Feels, Clark and Bruce have a complicated relationship, Duke and Jason are foster brothers, Families of Choice, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Self-Harm, Things Get Better, but they make it work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2020-10-19 15:13:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 38,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20659274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triple_lutz/pseuds/triple_lutz
Summary: “Excuse me,” Bruce Wayne says. “You’re blocking the path to my kids.”__________________Or the one in which foster kid Jason Todd, following chance encounters, finds shelter and family in the home of Clark Kent.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A decade of reading batfamily comics has taught me patience, strength, and the importance of healthy headcanons for every time the main stories fail us and the characters.
> 
> I hope you’ll enjoy this one! (• v •) I’ve been wanting to write it for so long... All the main events + endgame are planned, I’m just not 100% sure how many chapters will be needed for this. But we’re here for a long run!  
Please pretty please leave comments if you have time, I’d love to read your thoughts and feedback ♡ Title is from Unsteady by X Ambassadors. English is not my first language, so sorry in advance for any typo or wonky grammar! ;-;  
Let’s go—

So, this is bad. Jason knows it’s bad. There is nothing he can do right now but pray that detective Harper and the Wayne kids, all actors in this play, will tell no less nor more than the strict and honest truth today. After all, in truth, Jason did _nothing_ wrong. He was at the wrong place at the wrong time, is all. The truth paints him okay, but as for Cassandra Wayne—now, it’s more complicated. It’s a gray area. It’s a matter of opinion and, probably, of what Harper will say. It’s where lies might appear and in lies, Jason might not be painted okay.

There’s some mess on Montoya’s desk where Jason was told to wait while the officer helps record Dick Grayson’s statement. There’s a bit of dust, too, especially on the lamp. It’s nothing significant, but Jason is worried. Stressed out. He starts rearranging pens and pencils and even some notebooks that he deems crooked, all with one hand only since the other one is currently busy pressing an ice pack against his left cheek.

The punch he took was brutal. Even as someone familiar with beatings, Jason gives this one a solid 8 out of 10. He’s surprised nothing appears to be broken, as per the assessment of the first aid nurse downstairs. He thought detective Harper would have him checked in the ER, but ironically, it’s the dude who punched him who is being checked there right now. It’s most likely warranted.

The story goes like this: Jason was walking home from his weekly authorized trip to the library, when two men in their twenties landed on his path and started taunting him for wearing a purple Wonder Woman t-shirt. Jason knows to remain calm in such situations; he’s a foster kid, he has a record, and most importantly he had seen two police officers walking further down the street. It wasn’t a busy street but it was a busy time, so other people were here. Jason thought nothing of it.

He ignored the remarks and tried to carry on with his journey, except the men blocked his way again. Jason was holding a smartphone and of course, they needed this phone. Eventually, and just as Jason noticed the officers making her way toward them, one of the dudes finally lost his temper and punched him straight in the face. Jason accidentally dropped the phone on the ground, where it cracked on impact. Next thing he knew, someone was punching the guy back, _hard_, making him fall on his ass.

There was this small girl in front of Jason at that moment, with a boy and a man standing right behind her, and the officers sprinting fast toward the group while the second bad guy had already run away. Jason was too disoriented to run. He recognized Dick Grayson immediately, because the guy has been in the media a lot these past couple of years. As it turned out, the other two were his younger siblings.

Unlike what Jason imagined, being Wayne brats didn’t result in being able to avoid having to give official statements. The girl was a minor and, clearly quite amused, detective Harper took the time to compliment the swiftness and efficacy of her punch. Twenty long minutes and a car ride later, Jason and the siblings were brought into the nearest police station—him for hell knows what, the Waynes for interrogation.

First end of the story.

It’s not a good story.

Jason wishes he’d have run away, but there were good chances it might have made things worse in the end. Not that they’re looking great right now, either. Jason can’t find one good reason to tell himself it will all be okay. He prays that Derek will be understanding—he usually is—and that they can pretend the incident never happened.

Jason wants to forget about today. He changed his bed sheets this morning. He studied until late, yesterday. He’s longing for some sleep.

He stops cleaning. He knows it’s weird. His hands are full of bad patches of skin and tiny cuts from the chemicals and the amount of useless scrubbing of the floor and furniture in his room. He’s in public here, so he should really refrain from it. At least one officer is staring, his arms crossed, his frown visible from where Jason is. The boy has no idea what emotion is on display here—is it concern? disgust? Cleaning might have indeed been a bit rude to begin with.

He straightens up the last remaining pens by the small scanner on his left, which is tedious with his right hand, before he gives one last swipe to the chrome around the lamp. He then throws the tissues in the trashcan on his right and looks up to find that Montoya is being handed some papers by detective Harper. She takes it, thank her colleague, says quick goodbyes to the Waynes and finally start walking back to her desk.

She sits in front of Jason again, sighing as she angles the chair better. She seems chill, maybe bored. Teenagers caught in street fights they didn’t start are likely not as exciting cases to deal with than finer mysteries. She reads a little from the paper in her hand, picking up a pen in her right hand and playing with it for a bit. If she notices the little cleaning session Jason performed, she doesn’t mention it. She speaks kindly enough that Jason doesn’t think she has a bad view of him. “How’s the cheek?” she asks.

Jason shrugs. “Numb enough.”

“Good.” She leans forward, puts the pen down, and starts typing on her keyboard for a minute. Jason hopes that she’s writing something very close to the lines of ‘_incident over, everybody go home_’. Montoya almost grants him this wish. “Their story validates what detective Harper reports she saw. You’re not in trouble. None of you.”

“Cool.” Jason drops the ice bag on the desk and makes a move to get up. He has to leave. He must be back by curfew. He just had a bad day and anxiety is high. Too high. And he knows he’s a minor and that they’ve probably notified Derek by now, but it costs him nothing to try. “Can I leave?”

Montoya half-stands up too, places her right hand on Jason’s shoulder, and gently pushes him back into the chair. “I’m afraid _not_,” she replies. “You’re a minor, there are rules. Your social worker will be here soon.”

Jason’s blood pressure goes awry; he’s panicking. If Waylon and not Derek was called, then yeah, he’s in trouble. Big trouble. Derek is understanding and would see the incident as something that befell Jason, but Waylon?

Waylon is tired of Jason’s shit. He told the boy so himself, the last time there was an incident with a foster family, and Jason only narrowly avoided juvie again. Not that he was even at fault, but people do tend _not_ to stand up for him. Waylon placed him in the group home with little hope that he would stay there long, what with the strict rules of the place.

But it’s been half a year now, and Jason has held on. It’s really not been easy, more like a constant state of stress. One bad brush with the police and it’s back to emergency homes, juvie or the streets, to spaces where Jason would likely get his heart and body broken some more, left dry and cracked enough to never feel the same again.

Jason’s been there. He’s done that. He’s too old for good homes and his record isn’t stellar. He knows he only has this one last chance before he finally ages out, before things start to become even more complicated and tiring, one last shot at keeping an environment stable enough so he can graduate high school if that’s the last important thing he’ll ever be able to do.

So he’s been _good_. He’s been _kind_. He’s done everything in his power to avoid being thrown out, been fighting hard to stay where he is now because it’s decent, better than juvie, better than the streets, noisy and stressful but a roof for when it rains. He even gets along okay with the other boys. They don’t fight very often, they don’t ask many questions. They have their own problems and they all know to stay away from everyone else’s business. Jason almost _likes_ it there. He enjoys Derek’s company and doesn’t complain about chores. He’s stirred away from outside trouble at every single turn in the hope of a future where he could breathe and sleep better.

Yet, to his dismay, his efforts might have encountered a premature and brutal end today, all for his mighty crime of _walking on the street and wearing a damn shirt_.

Jason feels so worn and oh so, so angry. Why him? What kind of joke is this? Montoya is typing some more on her keyboard, the erratic rhythm making it difficult for Jason to concentrate on his next move. Should he run now? Later? Should he wait? He catches himself thinking that maybe nothing too drastic will happen once Waylon will be there. After all, Jason did not initiate the fight, nor did he entertain it. This could be his saving grace—granted, _if_ Waylon listens to him. (No one ever listens to him.)

“Listen”, Montoya says, making Jason flinch. “I have to leave, so one of our lieutenants will take over the paperwork. All we need is your social worker’s signature, and you’ll be free to go. It will be _okay_.” She emphasizes the last sentence so much, her eyes so kind when they look at him, that Jason has to believe her. He wants to believe her. He thinks he can, though it’s not enough to calm his fears for good.

Montoya peers above his shoulders, appears to make eye contact with someone, and gestures in the direction of the small hallway on Jason’s right. She then gets up and silently encourages the boy to follow suit. “Come on, let’s get you settled. Mr Jones is on his way.”

She leads Jason into the hallway and points towards the four chairs resting two by two against each wall, feet away from a closed door on which Jason can read _Lt. Sawyer_.

“Pick one,” Montoya says. When Jason hesitates a second too long, she pats him on the shoulder and gently pushes him forward. “Just be patient, kid. Be patient.”

Jason inhales sharply before he moves to sit on the nearest chair on his left. He hears Montoya leave, and she’s already disappeared behind the wall when he glances back toward the main room. Finally alone with himself, he half-relaxes his posture and sighs a bit louder than initially intended.

It’s quieter here. Not quiet enough to think, but enough to momentarily lull Jason into a calmer state for now. He knows he needs this. His cheek is still aching from the punch, his throat and mouth dry from thirst and the subpar A/C. He hopes that nothing else will come up before Waylon can sign the papers that will allow him to return to the group home.

He prays he can go back there.

After a couple of minutes spent waiting for the social worker to arrive, Jason starts to twist his fingers. It’s a bad habit. He shakes his head and squeezes his hands into fists to stop it from happening, before he suddenly hears footsteps stopping near his personal space. He throws his head backward, his eyes locking with those of the person before him. It’s Cassandra Wayne.

“Hello,” she greets. “We’ll wait here with you.”

Her smile is sweet as rain, the blue of her jacket donning green tones under the yellow lights. Jason nods in agreement. A low ‘_hey_’ escapes his lips, the roughness of his voice making it near silent. He’s not even sure Cassandra heard him at all.

She comes and sits on the chair in front of him, her brothers following behind her mere seconds later. Dick Grayson tells the younger boy — Jason forgot his name — to take the seat next to their sister, while he himself remains standing up there. Shooting a quick glance at the open end of the hallway, Jason can see an officer come post himself there, his back to the wall, looking at the young group intently and obviously making sure that no fight breaks up between them.

Now Jason feels utterly uncomfortable. This is far from an ideal situation to have them all parked here, although he guesses it’s more efficient for the GCPD. The boy in front of him offers him a smile the teenager doesn’t return; later, he’ll blame fatigue. Cassandra pulls out her phone from her tiny green bag, then sets to distract both her brother and herself with something playing on it. Dick Grayson, towering over them, is staring at Jason as if trying to dig up answers to questions unasked.

If Jason is honest, the man’s eyes show no hostility per se. He seems protective, is all. He’s a eldest sibling of four. The tension is more about a clear power imbalance. Right now especially, Jason is small and cornered, sitting on this chair and with so much more to lose than any of the Waynes. Worse, through their number and name alone, they could potentially put him in deep trouble, were they to file any complaint against him or a perceived behavior. It might not even _need_ to be true, at that point. Jason would not admit it out loud, but fact is that he’s too scared to free the slightest amount oftime or space to allow rightful anger between the cracks, because who knows where that could lead.

(He knows too well where that could lead.)

To Jason’s surprise, however, Dick soon reports his attention to the one chair left. “Do you mind if I…” he trails off, his voice even. Jason nods automatically in response.

Dick walks over and sits down, flashing the boy a small smile. At this, Cassandra and her brother stop whatever they are doing on the phone. They both look at the older man with sheepish smiles, smirks even, that are met with an eye roll then a grin.

Jason has been gawking, and that is wrong for sure, but he’s an only child and the ways siblings act are still odd spectacles to him. These three seem close. He wonders if it would be easier or worse in his situation to also have a sibling, but he guesses he’ll never know, so there’s no need dwelling long on this impossibility.

“Hey,” the other boy calls, waving in Jason’s direction. “What’s your name?”

Jason knows he has no obligation to answer. He thinks they already know his name, actually, that they’ve heard it around the precinct or saw it written on this or that piece of paperwork. It’s likely not a real question, just a polite conversation starter. Jason doesn’t want to talk with them per se, since he’s busy panicking and all, but if it’s only his first name they‘re curious about, then he can give the Waynes that much.

“Jason.”

“I’m Tim.” The boy makes vague gestures toward the two others. “This is Cass, and that’s Dick.”

Jason hums. “Okay.”

He doesn’t know what else to say. He doesn’t mean to be rude—he just really doesn’t know. They don’t have much to share and will part soon enough, them back to the castle and him back to the pit. What else is there to say?

“I take it these men didn’t like your t-shirt,” Dick muses. Jason turns slightly in his direction, unsure how to interpret the tone. Turns out that although the dude’s body language is still somewhat reserved, his eyes and his smile are kind.

Jason shrugs. “Guess not.”

“I like it,” Cassandra offers. Tim half-represses a laugh, then nods in agreement. Jason thinks it’s all ridiculous, but if anything, it amuses him.

“Thanks,” he answers. “And thanks for earlier, too. You punch nice.”

She beams at him again. “Anytime.”

Dick groans. “No, not anytime!”

This makes Tim and Cassandra chuckle, which somehow annoys the cop at the end of the hallway. “Quieter,” he spits, looking at them with a disapproving scowl.

Jason can’t wait for it all to be over. He tells himself ‘_anytime now_’ and lets it echo on a loop in his head, almost like a lullaby. Silence around the Waynes only brings him stress, and it comes to him that the light talk he just had with them was actually quite nice, relaxing even.

So when the cop gets distracted and takes six steps away to exchange a few words with a fellow officer, Jason takes it as the opportunity to ask no one in particular: “Your dad coming?”

He’s not sure whether Dick Grayson actually calls Bruce Wayne his dad. They don’t even share a family name.

Still, it’s him who answers, with a simple “_Yes_.” He sinks deeper into his chair before he adds: “Well, he doesn’t come for _me_, I’m an adult. But these two…”

“Shame you couldn’t sign for us,” Tim mumbles.

Jason wonders what it will be like to meet a billionaire, and how well or long he’ll manage not to punch the guy. His thoughts are interrupted when Dick asks him a question of his own: “What about you? Who’s picking you up?”

Jason grits his teeth. “Social worker.”

Not that he planned on giving the Waynes this info about him, but after all, they were all kids in the system at one point themselves. While he can’t remember Cassandra’s case, he has good memories of Dick’s situation. He never learned how Tim got added to the bunch but he assumes it was bad too.

So yeah, all three, they’ve once been where Jason is. They won’t think him weird for this.

“Are they chill?” Dick asks. Jason discerns some guard in the tone.

He shakes his head.“I don’t—“

There’s no time to finish this thought. Somewhere in the main room, Jason hears Waylon give his name to an officer, and that’s enough to make the boy jolts up on his feet, bracing for emotional impact. There’s nowhere to run for now.

Seconds later, Waylon stands in front of the group, too close to Jason. He seems short of breath, some sweat on his forehead, his professional badge hanging backward from the left pocket of his grey shirt.

He is _upset_.

“What did you do?” he grunts. He is looking Jason in the eye and it is nothing if intimidating. Jason is tall, but Waylon is _so tall_, the teen feels like he’s suffocating in fear of an attack his rational side otherwise knows will never come.

“Nothing,” he whispers.

“Don’t _lie_ to me.”

Now, that rubs Jason the wrong way. It’s a memory, one he hates, one that rings like a threat. It’s a fight or flight button.

And Jason, too, is angry now. “I’m _not_ a liar!”

The hallway cop comes closer again, another one approaching as well. Waylon doesn’t even flinch.

Now, the thing is, Jason isn’t stupid. He knows that letting his anger and frustration out in the open will get him nowhere today. His muscles are aching from the buzz in his head, from the rage setting his chest and cheeks on fire, but he retains some sense of reason and reality in there. He’ll definitely have a lot of aggression and tears to part with once the opportunity will present itself, and he’s worried about what that will be like; still, at this very moment, the quiet side of him knows that he should only focus on not getting evicted from the group home, a plan that starts with not punching anyone—let alone Waylon, much less so right here.

He hears the Waynes get up and thinks that at least one of them will back him up, but before anyone can say anything, a tall silhouette appears. Jason can feel the blood drain from his face. Waylon shoots him a weird glance and is about to say something, when—

“Excuse me,” Bruce Wayne says. “You’re blocking the path to my kids.”

He sounds pissed off. He is _scary_. His fitted black suit and the cold shade of his eyes give him the sort of aura Jason tends not to challenge.

But Waylon isn’t impressed. He turns around to face the billionaire, then spits: “Excuse _me_, but I’m not done talking to mine.”

The words spark something rotten in Jason’s bones, as if making them porous and pouring poison in the holes. It is liquid anxiety and his mind is _oh_ so drunk on it. “I’m _not_ your kid,” he growls—_tries_ to growl—but it’s barely a whisper. It’s all the energy he has left.

If he could cry, he would.

Waylon turns around to face him, but where Jason expected wrath, he finds an apologetic look and what could very well be _pity_ in the man’s traits.

And Bruce Wayne is watching Jason, too. His scowl is not unkind, only intimidating, his eyes piercing and curious.

The teen isn’t in the mood to entertain some staring contest.He starts to seriously consider making a run for it when suddenly, behind the billionaire, another man appears. The glasses on his nose are a bit crooked, right hand holding a tablet and a digital pen, left hand carrying a small, worn leather briefcase. Jason can sense the Wayne kids shift behind him, _relax_ even. The stranger offers them soft smiles and when his gaze lands on Jason, this kindness doesn’t falter. Jason isn’t sure why, but it’s almost as if the air has just become more breathable.

Shortly, Bruce Wayne averts his eyes and leaves Jason to his thoughts. He then turns to Waylon again and extends his hand for the social worker to shake, breathing out a barely audible ‘_Bruce Wayne_’ as if his face and name aren’t common knowledge in Gotham.

Waylon, his back to Jason again, takes the hand offered. “Waylon Jones,” he mumbles. “We met during your foster parent training.”

Bruce Wayne raises an eyebrow. “Sorry, I don’t recall.”

The man behind him rolls his eyes almost comically, then starts staring at the back of Bruce Wayne’s head with a hint of disapproval.

Maybe Jason is wrong, but he believes what he sees in this stranger’s mocking smirk to be fondness—unbounded.

He doesn’t have much time to dwell on who the man might be, because not three seconds later, a door opens behind him. Lieutenant Sawyer, paper in hands, surveys the little group. The flat tone of her voice says a lot of her boredom. “Mr Wayne. Mr Jones.”

Bruce Wayne nods. “Lieutenant.”

Waylon groans in lieu of greetings. “Look, can we speed this up? I have other cases to deal with today.”

That hurts. Jason doesn’t even know why it still hurts to know he’s nothing but a number, a file, an inconvenient piece in the overcrowded puzzle that is the foster system. He’s temporary. He’s not worth much time.

He doesn’t even know what to make of his indignation about Waylon insinuating that he was his guardian or father not even a minute ago, now that this new pain has replaced that. The conflict and the fear, this ever-growing fear, are filling him with dread everywhere he can still feel.

“Of course,” he hears Sawyer reply. She takes a step aside, after what Bruce Wayne and Waylon start marching toward her office. The third man creeps a couple feet closer to the chairs, stopping right by Cassandra who immediately gives him half a hug. Jason still doesn’t move. He hears Sawyer’s voice again.

“Ten minutes—you four behave, okay? Mr Kent, how does babysitting sound?”

_Mr Kent_ smiles politely. “Like no trouble.”

“Great.”

With this, she closes the door.

The echo bounces in Jason’s ears like the announcement of a threat now entering full speed mode, coming straight at him, and there’s nowhere left to hide. Ten minutes to impact. Jason doesn’t know why he’s still standing up. The cops around might not like it, might see it as bad intentions. He knows this. He understands. His body, however, isn’t ready to comply.

He takes a deep breath. He can do this. There’s still a chance the incident will be brushed off, so he should focus on that. Close to him, Mr Kent and Cassandra are making light conversation, soon joined by Tim when the man crouches down to hear Cassandra better and put his tablet and pen inside the briefcase.

From the corner of his eye, Jason can see Mr Kent glancing at him in every five seconds or so, as though studying him or waiting for something. Anxiety is pooling in the teen’s guts as he tries to figure out what it is he should do now, until out of the blue, a hand lands on his back. The touch is gentle and light, here for comfort, and it _stays_. Jason doesn’t immediately register it as Dick’s hand.

“You should sit,” he hears. “Ten minutes is a long time.” Jason knows he’s right, he does, but he can’t bring himself to move immediately, too busy holding onto the warmth of the touch so not to fall apart again. A brief moment passes before Dick quietly adds: “Bruce knows you did nothing wrong. He won’t ever let them say otherwise.”

Jason shivers and turns around, breaking contact, searching for a possible lie in the way Dick is looking at him.

But the guy seems serious. He even sounded confident. Although it appears he calls his adopted father by his first name, there’s no doubt he carries at least some trust in the man.

Jason doesn’t carry that. He doesn’t know Bruce Wayne. He doesn’t trust people like Bruce Wayne. He would have _much_ preferred never meeting Bruce Wayne.

And yet, what choice does he have but to hope that Dick is right? This isn’t fair. Nothing is fair. Jason wishes he could run away, like he’s done before. He knows the streets, he’s survived there. He’s six months away from adulthood, what’s the system gonna do? They might as well thank him for freeing some space, this time. He’s not fifteen anymore. Not worth saving anymore.

To Jason’s grief, though, he’s in a police station, and at this point there’s no way he’d manage to get out before being made captive again. He’s a bird trapped.

Not to mention, he doesn’t want the Waynes to understand exactly how small he is, how lost he feels, or how desperate his heart grows.

So Jason doesn’t run. He exhales slowly, then does as suggested. The chair creeks under his weight. Tim, who had disappeared from his line of vision for a while, gives him an earnest and encouraging smile. Cassandra and Mr Kent also stop their conversation. This is too quiet now, to Jason anyway.

In front of him, still crouched by Cassandra, Mr Kent beams and holds his left hand out for Jason to shake. “Hey, I’m Clark.”

The boy doesn’t move. He doesn’t know why his wariness is so high, or why the idea of punching this dude so vividly crosses his mind. Not like Clark has done anything to deserves this, but—but who knows. Jason never knows.

Seeing the lack of reaction, Clark drops his hand. Not his smile, though. “That was your social worker, right?” he continues. “Is you guardian coming soon?” No answer. “Foster parents?”

“Got none.”

Jason doesn’t want to talk, only wants him to stop. Because maybe Clark means well, maybe he’s being kind, but it doesn’t feel that way. He’s causing _pain_. He must see it, too, because his expression finally becomes grave, and he examines Jason with a concern the teenager finds absolutely unbearable.

Jason doesn’t think he can restraint himself from punching Clark much longer. He prays that Waylon will be done with the paperwork as fast as possible, and that his fate will be known within the hour. He has hit his limit.

“How old are you?” Clark asks. It’s irritating, but perhaps it’s safer to entertain him just once more.

“Seventeen and some.” This time, when the man frowns and opens his mouth to speak again, Jason is quick to trail off: “Listen, I don’t…”

There’s no end to this sentence. Don’t need any. To his credit, Clark gets it. He acquiesces and keeps his mouth shut, at least for now. It is evident that he wants to ask more. His gaze starts to travel from the main room full of cops to Jason and back, several times. He looks increasingly worried as he gradually gathers the entire extent of the problems the boy might be facing shortly, regardless of whether he is guilty or not.

Jason _really_ wishes they could ignore each other.

“Sorry about your lunch,” Tim says to break the silence, thankfully getting Clark’s attention away from Jason.

“No, it’s okay, don’t worry about that. We were almost done anyway, just had to miss out on the cake. I might convince him to order another later.”

“We baked one,” Cassandra grins.

Clark chuckles. “Did you?”

Jason stands silent and still. The words don’t exactly register in his mind, but the tones do. They’re all very familiar with each other, open and kind in their interactions.

He isn’t envious of such things anymore, or at least he doesn’t think he is. It’s more a longing than some sort of jealousy. He will probably let himself feel bad about that later, in private, away from anyone’s judgement, perhaps his own judgement even. For now, he tries to tune it all out.

Problem is, the way Clark is staring at him again doesn’t allow Jason to build himself a bubble. This man is _persistent_. He doesn’t give off dangerous vibes—far from it, in fact. But Jason has no interest in being civil when he can barely hold his sanity together at the moment. He doesn’t need pity. He doesn’t need _help_.

(He will tell himself so until it becomes true.)

But Clark makes it difficult. “Are you in a group home?”

Although Jason does his best not to engage, his body betrays him, so he ends up automatically nodding and mouthing a low ‘_yeah_’. Clark considers it for a moment. Cassandra and Tim do, too, by the understanding looks they are now sending Jason’s way. Have they been in group homes before? That’s entirely possible. Dick might have gone there as well, but Jason already has three pairs of eyes examining his every disadvantages right now, so he’d rather not find out for sure about a potential fourth. He doesn’t need the added stress.

“I see,” is all Clark eventually answers.

Not that this reaction is reassuring or clear, but it’s enough for Jason to relax a little. He has to breathe, after all.

Likely tired of squatting, Clark finally rises on his feet and takes support against the wall. He lets his gaze linger on Jason’s face again, just a bit longer, before he gives up and fishes a cellphone from the inside of his briefcase. He unlocks it when something else, under the screen catches his interest—and Jason can see what. His hands. The state of his hands. The way he’s twisting them now.

He knows what the blemishes look like even though it’s not what they are, and he’s not sure that what they are is much better than what they look like. He knows it’s _lame_ and useless. Quickly, he hides one under the other, the right under the left, the most visible shame under a vain shield above.

Jason prepares himself for yet another question from Clark. To his surprise, however, Dick is the one who speaks first.

“Did you tell Duke what happened?”

Clark turns to him and nods, his smile instantaneous. Jason’s heart almost hurts at the softness of that grin.

“I did, and he wants to hear all about it tonight. He called you bad influences and he wants you to know that.”

Dick snorts in amusement. “Alright.”

Jason has no idea who Duke is, but he can take a guess. Whoever he _actually_ is, Cassandra and Tim are visibly happy with the news that they’ll meet him soon.

The way Tim stares at Jason a moment later, though, is conflicted and urgent. There’s something he wants to say. Something important he doesn’t let escape yet, like a secret of sorts. Jason doesn’t know whether to be curious or annoyed. When Clark clears his throat, his body betrays him again, because he’s _exhausted_ and _ten minutes is a long time_, so Jason ends up raising his chin to be able to look the man in the eye.

Clark’s smile for him is kind when he states, “Duke is my foster son.”

Jason has a thousand angry replies to this information. Ten thousand pleading ones, too. He feels entirely empty in an second, like smacked too hard, unable to decide what to do or say. Good for Duke. Good for Clark.

Fuck Jason’s soul.

“Listen,” Clark carries on, his tone more pressing now. “We have a room—“

“_Stop_ talking.”

The vague burning sensation over Jason’s bruised cheek worsens now that he’s _maybe_ about to cry, the tears blurring his vision and making him short of breath. He can’t think. Doesn’t want to think. Has it not been ten minutes? Is Bruce Wayne not in a hurry? Don’t they all have some cake waiting to be eaten somewhere? Waylon can be angry. Jason won’t care. He wants it to be over and he wants to know where he’ll sleep tonight, _if_ he’ll sleep, what to tell Derek. He has homework to do. He needs a new phone. He owes Kyle a _thank you_ text.

He’s not sure what to pray for anymore by the time he hears his name spoken out loud on his left. The sound of it drags on in Jason’s ear, and when he turns his head to face Dick, he is confused to find softness and hope in the gravity of the man’s expression and tone.

“I think Clark meant to say that there’s space for you in his home.”

Jason blinks several times. A couple of tears gather on his eyelashes. When he looks at Clark again, it’s with apprehension now. He doesn’t dare hoping nor can he find within himself the right kind of anger to answer potential rejection after such comments were made. It’s gonna be all or nothing, and Jason doesn’t believe he could handle this nothing.

In front of him, Clark goes back to a squatting position again. He stands lower than Jason, like this. It’s by design. It’s voluntary. Jason feels like a _kid_.

The man then nods repeatedly, as if agreeing with Dick. His frown betrays his difficulty finding the words he wants to say—and, from this close and now that Jason is paying enough attention, his _age_.

The door to Lieutenant Sawyer’s office opens before Clark can add anything to this mess. In an instant, all five of them gathered here raise on their feet. The briefcase escapes Clark’s fingers and falls on the floor with a thump.

Bruce Wayne is the first to exit the office. He shakes Lieutenant Sawyer’s hand over the threshold, whispers some parting words to her, then takes a step forward to face Tim and Cassandra. He seems perfectly calm. “Let’s go,” he sighs. 

But the three Wayne kids glance at Clark and Jason instead, hesitant to comply.

Now, Jason is on alert. He can’t think. He _must_ think. Waylon is exchanging words with Lieutenant Sawyer, so there’s barely a minute left. Jason can’t speak. He must _convey_. He can read Bruce Wayne’s surprise when no one is hurrying up to move, catches the moment the man quickly surveys him before his gaze falls on Clark.

And there, in a second, Bruce Wayne understands.

Not even Jason understands.

He knows he is part of what is happening right now, however most of it is escaping his grasp. He is grateful—frightened, but grateful. He doesn’t know what else to do but to look at Clark in a way that he hopes isn’t too pathetic, a way that doesn’t exactly say _save me_, that starts with a _maybe_ before allowing it to be followed by a _please_ he is failing to vocalize. It’s not entirely his fault; no one’s ever given him a _choice_. Jason has never felt this power nor this kind of fear before. He doesn’t know where it lasts. He is afraid to fall harder.

After Waylon has said his goodbye to Bruce Wayne, he focuses on Jason. Although he is not so angry anymore, he doesn’t exactly exude reassurance either. He hasn’t even yet made two steps in Jason’s direction when Clark takes the initiative of shifting his body to stand in the middle of the hallway, raising his left arm like a shield and keeping Jason behind it.

The boy cannot recall anyone ever taking such a protective stance for him.

“Mr Jones? Clark Kent. I am the foster parent of a teenage boy not attached to your care.”

He extends his right hand, which Waylon doesn’t take. Jason stares at his feet. He knows Waylon, so he knows that already now, the man _knows_. Perhaps he even is _glad_. He understands, too.

Clark withdraws his hand, shrugs, and in a quiet voice he states: “We have some room to spare.”


	2. Chapter 2

There are birds chirping nearby. They just came home for the spring. The parking lot by the ice rink in North-Gotham is almost empty now that the sun starts setting below the skyscrapers. Waylon is peering at his watch every thirty seconds or so, the furrow of his brow making him seem almost threatening. Jason is repressing a cough.

He’s a bit cold right now (should have worn gloves and double socks) and still in disbelief about where he’ll soon be going. It’s a lot to process. He doesn’t have much time.

Following the encounters at the police station, Waylon moved him to an emergency placement for two nights right after another brief meeting in his office with Mr Kent. The Wayne clan had waved Jason goodbye at the bottom of the building, and next thing the boy knew, Waylon and Clark were already discussing bedrooms and license checks and school districts and whatnot.

Jason tuned them out. He needed some space. He barely managed to say goodbye to half of the other boys at the group home, later that night, as he quickly gathered his meagre property in a sport bag. He was worried Derek would be disappointed, but as it turned out, the man was _happy_ for him. He gave Jason a quick hug at the front door, wished him well, and waited until the teen got inside Waylon’s car before he returned back to work.

One more closed and done chapter of Jason’s life.

He wonders how long a wait would be alright before he visits there again, spells out louder ‘_thank you_’, and offers whatever help he can. He has so many things to do. He wonders if the birds, too, are on edge. He can’t stop scratching a patch of irritated skin on his left index and it looks like it’s about to bleed again. He tries and fails to calm down. He’d fight for a cigarette.

“You ready?” Waylon asks him. “Excited? How are you feeling?”

Jason thinks it’s the first time in months that Waylon has spoken so quietly to him. Not that it’s really the man’s fault, of course; Jason is a handful. He knows he is. He’s working on that. He turns his head to the right to look the social worker in the eye, and finds genuine curiosity there.

Still, he has no good answer to give. He puts his hands behind his back and shrugs, not wanting to keep Waylon hanging. “It’s a foster home”

“Your _last_ foster home.”

“I guess.”

“What’s wrong? Planning to run?”

Waylon’s tone indicates that is only half-joking. Jason glowers.

It’s not that he has _not_ considered running away again, yes, okay, _alright_, but—but _no_. No he wont’t. Not this time, not so close to his goals. Sure, he’s a hothead and a mess, and maybe he’ll fuck this up, but even so, it won’t be without having tried hard enough to avoid it in the first place.

Before Jason can reply as much as simple ‘_no_’, Waylon adds: “You should trust yourself more. You’re not a bad kid, you know?”

That leaves the boy perplexed. Why is he telling him this? Why now? He sounds sincere and that makes it all the more surprising. To say that Jason is a bad kid would indeed be a stretch, however there’s no denying he has his bad moments and has made his fair share of subpar decisions, these past thee years. Hell, he might be making another big mistake _right now_.

After a short silence, Waylon gives out a sigh. He pats Jason on the shoulder and he tells him, chuckling for a second: “Well, _sometimes_ you’re not.”

Jason lets out a snort. “Gee, thanks.”

Though they’ve rarely seen eye to eye, now that their time together appears to come to a near end, Jason has to hand it to the man: he _tried_. The system sucks. Waylon works hard, overtime, underpaid, and for every instance of him yelling at foster kids, he’s yelled at judges and shitty foster parents twice as much and three times as loud. 

He suddenly taps Jason on the arm and points somewhere further on the boy’s left. “There he is.”

A gray car is driving toward them, Mr Kent behind the steering wheel. He stops the engine a few feet away from Waylon and Jason, exits the vehicle, and jogs to them quickly. His smile is shy, however his posture is relaxed.

He greets Waylon and Jason, exchanges a handshake with the social worker, gives him a file, and encourages Jason to come buckle up in the car. Before the boy does so, he says his goodbye to Waylon, who extends his hand. Jason hesitates, then shakes it firmly. The contact hurts where his skin is torn.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Waylon nods. He looks far less scary now. “You stay out of trouble this time, alright?”

Jason can only hope that the rushed ‘_yeah_’ he mumbles in response will end up a promise and not an impending lie.

The ride between the ice rink and Mr Kent’s place is longer than Jason thought it would be. To his relief, though, it’s _quiet_. He lets about five minutes pass before he stops so intently staring through his window. Gotham is grey around them. It might very well rain tonight.

Uncomfortably straightening himself up in the passenger seat, Jason is all too aware of his guts twisting from the anxiety he can’t shake off, the feeling glued to his every nerve like a recurring nightmare.

He knows he can’t escape conversing with Clark eventually. After all, they’re going to spend at least half a year under the same roof. There’s no hiding for that long. It sucks that he hasn’t had a functioning phone for the past three days because yeah, otherwise, Jason might have googled the hell out of Clark Kent. Knowledge, power, the usual. The _fear_ as well, of course. As it is, the teen only knows the man’s name, that he’s a journalist, and that he knows the Waynes. All information that scares him already.

Be that as it may, Jason would really like to start this new life on the right foot. He can’t give any hint of dysfunction yet — any _further_ hint, more like. After all, Clark already knows about the state of his hands, perhaps enough to already think that there’s something rotten somewhere in the boy’s mind.

So Jason _has_ to try. At least once, if anything. In an effort to let Clark in, build a narrow bridge and maybe woven some trust, he chances a glance in the man’s direction when the car stops at a red light.

Clark catches this. His neutral expression morphs in an instant, his smile now eager and soft, the wrinkles around his eyes more evident under the city lights. “Are you alright?” he asks. He sounds worried, and that doesn’t sit right.

Jason averts his gaze, acquiesces, mumbles: “Yessir.”

“_Clark_ is fine.” The traffic light turns green again. Jason doesn’t know what to say. Clark drives in silence for a bit, until he eventually muses in a hushed voice: “You look like you’re expecting some lengthy line of questioning.”

“I am.”

“Ah.” The man chuckles. Jason isn’t certain of it, but he thinks Clark sounds embarrassed. “Well, I already know you don’t have any substance abuse problem, only some anger issues in the past, but…” Another red light. Clark stops behind two cars, sighs, then turns to Jason. “No incident in half a year, right? I take it you’ve grown calmer.”

Now, that’s not what he expected. He can’t really say why, but it makes him half-grin back. Bitterly so.

“Something like that.”

“The system is draining, I understand. I don’t blame you for feeling bad.”

There’s no trace of humor nor fake intonations in that. Clark knows exactly what to say, and the boy isn’t thrilled about this fact. He’s almost _scared_, in a way. This dude is good at reading the part of him Jason would much rather keep under wrap. More radically, that’s not his idea of his ideal foster parent—one who’d remain indifferent, like a roommate, cordial but not _involved_.

Clark is definitely not gonna be the type. “That being said,” he continues, “Dick teaches his siblings gymnastics and boxing on his off-time. They have their own teachers too, but he’s the one they prefer. On those days you might feel like punching something or someone, perhaps you should consider giving him a call instead. He’ll be happy to teach you too.”

Jason guesses it’s useless to try and assess the truthfulness of Clark’s positive words today. He will need some more time. When the cars in front of them start moving again, he coughs a little, then answers flatly: “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Alright.” Five o’clock beeps on Clark’s watch. He looks around the street they’re on, still surrounded by too many cars. His eyes briefly meet Jason’s before he focuses on the road again. “Are you hungry? We’ll be eating dinner in a couple of hours, but if you need a snack now, we can stop somewhere.”

“I’m good.”

Clark’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. Jason can see it, and it gives him bad chills. Perhaps this last short answer was one too many for today, and Clark is finally about to snap. The boy holds his breath for a few seconds. He braces for the hurt.

Eventually, though, all Clark tells him is: “It will be quite a change for you to be with us, so… You tell me when it’s too much and we’ll give you some space, alright?”

Jason’s heart is still racing from the fear. Not good. But Clark’s words were—_good_. They seem to always be that way, and it’s frustrating somehow, because Jason can’t let his guard down now. His time is running out. His nerves are giving out. The tightness behind his shoulders is making him choke a bit on the breath he painfully, silently exhales. He coughs again, exposing his hands when he brings them to his mouth.

Nevertheless, he knows to once again feel grateful for what Clark just said. It’s normal stuff for many, perhaps, but the bar has been dropped so low by unwanted people in his life, Jason is always impressed when someone raises it above ankle height in terms of sincerity and tact.

For this, he offers Clark a small smile. “Thanks.”

Clark lets out a quick laugh. “Got it. Not talkative.”

“Give me a week.”

“Looking forward.”

The rest of the ride is more of the same, although Clark makes a point to talk less. Once they leave the main grounds of Gotham, they soon find themselves in the nicer parts of the city, condos and private houses and pretty gardens around it, the pink and red sky above Gotham easily visible now that the tall buildings are gone.

Jason has a hard time hearing Clark over the growing chatter of a bitterness he prays will go away soon enough. He gathers that the man is a journalist, and that Duke has been living with him for quite some time—two years or so—and that a dog is waiting them ‘_at home_’.

Clark calls it home. Jason chews on his tongue.

It’s almost five thirty when they finally cross an open gate to the driveway of a small house surrounded by a somewhat kept garden and falling ivy branches. Jason tries to take it in already. Two stories, end of the street, partially hidden behind pine trees, dog toys left in front of the door. Clark makes a turn to the left and parks under a wooden roof. A bicycle and two motorcycles, the real and big kind, are already parked there.

As soon as Clark stops the engine, Jason quickly unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out of the car. He needs some air and private time.

He takes a few steps so to exit the covered space then allows himself to look at the sky for a moment. It looks different than that of the Gotham he knows most. He can recall coming this far on the outskirts of the city three or four times, via subway, a couple of years ago, in attempts to make breathing easier. (And to steal. Whatever.) There’s a particular struggle in being here now that it’s only part of a choice.

This whole thing is a lot. Jason feels like he’s not much.

His mind is simultaneously blank and drowning in saturated noise. The familiar mix of anxiety and panic spreading all across his body and clawing at his bones is here, it’s always here, it’s here more than usual. It sucks.

Jason’s thoughts are cut short when he hears the soft sound of a car door being shut behind him, the trunk door opening and closing too, all controlled disturbances made to be as quiet as possible. Clark is giving him an encouraging smile as he comes closer, a bit too close, and slings Jason’s bag over his left shoulder. He then nods in the direction of the door.

“Ready?”

Jason is scratching his hands again. Clark notices, of course, but doesn’t say anything. Ashamed, the boy drops his arms on each side of his body and shoves his fingers in the pockets of his jacket. He avoids looking at the man any more as they walk to the door. Faint barks can be heard behind it, giving relief to Jason’s heart.

“It will be alright,” Clark tells him as he gently pushes him forward. But before either of them can even reach it, the door opens from the inside.

Clark and Jason are immediately greeted by a large, happy looking beige lab, who jumps around the two of them and surprisingly obeys when asked not to bark anymore. Jason wastes no time kneeling down to pet the animal. He already knows who will become his confident in this house..

He hears someone chuckle in front of him and raises his head in the direction of the sound. A young man—Duke, he assumes—is standing in the doorframe, a smile on his lips and a yellow jacket hanging on his left arm.

Jason straightens up just as Duke offers him his right hand and leans in closer.

“Hey! I’m Duke. So nice to meet you.”

“Hi. Jason.”

“And this is Krypto,” Clark says, scratching the dog behind the ears. “She’s a bit clingy.”

Jason snorts. “Yeah, I won’t mind.”

Clark invites him inside and instructs him to discard his shoes on the rack by the entrance. Here, Jason discovers a brand new pair of slippers with a post-it glued to it, and his name written on the paper. He puts them on and sheepishly finds them too fluffy to bear. He’d thank Clark for the gift, but the man is busy talking with Duke outside.

“Going somewhere?”

“Yeah, sorry, a book I reserved for school just arrived at the library. I thought I’d also stop by the bike shop on the way so they can repair my bell, since tomorrow is so busy. Is that okay?”

“It’s fine, but please be back by six thirty, alright? Do you have your phone with you?”

“Always.”

“Okay.” Clark pats the teen on the shoulder. “Come back safe.”

Duke beams at him and starts putting on the yellow jacket. “Will do.” He pets Krypto as a goodbye and then looks at Jason. “Let’s talk later, yeah? It’s great to have you here.”

He sounds as sincere as Clark. Jason won’t admit it out loud, but he hopes Duke and him will soon become friends, just in case. For _safety_. “Good to not be alone.”

With this, Duke leaves. Clark gets into the house and closes the door behind him. Krypto whines a little, but cheers up when Jason crouches to give her attention again. Along with the small peace this contact gives him comes a vivid wave of fatigue. He’s barely slept since he’s met Clark and the Waynes and had to deal with the police, unable to relax in the emergency homes, walking on eggshells even when standing still.

“So... Welcome to your new house,” Clark says while taking off his shoes. “You’re probably tired, so how about a quick tour, then we’ll rush the evening so you can rest soon?”

“Sure.”

They leave their jackets and Jason’s scarf on the hooks above the shoe rack. There are stairs in front of the entrance, but they start with the ground floor first. Overall, Jason thinks the house seems very cosy, the décor rustic and warm.

He follows Clark to the living room and kitchen combo, on the right from the entrance. Two steps separate the living room space from the kitchen table, the appliances standing well behind it. The place is fairly large, with beige and dark brown furniture with shades of blue on the pillows and tablecloths, and wide windows from which Jason can see a small garden with unkempt bushes and dirty outside dining table and chairs. There’s a good amount of pictures framed on the walls, some pinned letters on a wooden board too, above a small bookshelf and right by a larger one. Jason recognizes the Waynes on a few of the photographs.

“The kitchen is open from six in the morning to nine thirty at night,” Clark informs him. “We don’t do soda, however we have treats, and you’re welcome to two of them a day until five.”

Jason nods absently. He watches as Krypto goes to her bed, on the farthest corner of the living room area from the kitchen, where she sits and starts playing with a stuffed penguin.

“Sorry, I… where’s the guest room?”

“The guest— you mean _your_ room?” Jason nods. Clark’s face is unreadable, though his tone remains calm. “Guest room is downstairs on the other side of the house. Your room is upstairs, as are Duke’s and mine. Follow me?”

Jason refrains from any comment on this. He wouldn’t even know what to say. He climbs up the stairs a couple of steps behind Clark and feels as if it’s not him here, not him doing that, detached from his skin. Even his cough doesn’t feel his. It’s not the first time it happens, and although the kid usually fears this state, maybe it makes things easier today.

There are indeed three bedrooms upstairs, two on one side and Clark’s on the other, next to a bathroom. The room further from the stairs is the one Clark points Jason to as his. Seeing that the boy hesitates to visit it first, Clark pushes him forward lightly, opens the door for him, and flicks the light switch on.

The space is decently sized, with a large single bed under a window framed by blue curtains, a desk right by the bed, and a wardrobe and mostly empty shelves on the opposite side of it. Some comics and manga were left here—by Duke, presumably. The desk is busy, with pens and notebooks and a lamp and even, to Jason’s surprise, a laptop still in its box.

Clark walks into the room. “Duke and I assembled all the furniture yesterday. I wasn’t sure about your style, so this is basic, but… we can always change it later. The curtains too, the cot as well, anything really.” He looks at the shelves by the desk and inside the empty wardrobe, then adds: “We’ll fill these up.”

Jason hums noncommittally. There’s no point protesting now, it’s too late in the day and too early in his stay. He is grateful for the offer, of course. It’s not about that. He hopes Clark knows it’s not about that.

He revels in the short silence they share, reminding himself why he’s doing this, why he’s not running this time, what it can mean to finish school and how _quick_ his pit stop here will be. Six months, tops. He just has to bid his time. It’s a bonus if he gets along well with Clark and Duke, for sure, because Jason is tired of conflicts and knows he should rest while he can, make rational decisions while he can, keep his anger in check while he can.

Clark’s glances betray his worry, his frown aging his traits. Jason dodges a staring match by focusing his eyes on the box on the desk instead. He expected access to the Internet, sure, but a laptop for him alone? Is it what it is?

“For you,” Clark says. “From _Bruce_.” He takes a step forward to get closer to the desk, resting a hand on the top of the box, the other motioning toward Jason’s space. “It’s brand new. I left the WiFi password on your desk too. It has no tracker on it or anything, but listen, I’m a _concerned_ parent, so if you watch porn, there’s a twenty percent chance I will find out.”

Jason groans. “Gross.”

Clark snorts and chuckles. “To you and me both. We have a Netflix account, I’ll give you the login, please try watching this instead.”

“Will do.”

“House rule is laptops on the counter downstairs at 10 P.M. on week days and not in use before school, unless it’s an emergency or you have _that_ much homework to catch up on. We spent most of our weekends at the Waynes’ but the same weekend rules apply both here and there, and state that you can use the laptop at any time between Friday night and Sunday 10 P.M., but none of us can miss breakfast, lunch, dinner, or agreed upon occasions. No laptop then, and no phone at the table. Sounds fair?”

“Yes.”

_No_. The _weekends at the Waynes_’ part sounds unfair and unwanted, for Jason as much as for this family who didn’t ask for this—for _him_. It’s a dance the boy dreads and connections he doesn’t see working, be it now or anytime in the future.

But he knows better than to speak up about it now. No need for right-of-the-bat conflict. He favors deflection instead. “It was stricter at the group home. No laptop to begin with.”

“Enjoy some freedom. This is _really_ yours, by the way, not mine and borrowed by you. Bruce called it a welcome gift.”

Jason elects to ignore this. Frankly, he’s exhausted. This is one of the longest evenings of his life, and many an evening has scarred him in the past. His hands are itching. There’s wood dust on the floor.

“Now, about the phone. You’re on my plan, and we’ll get you a new one tomorrow. You must keep it with you at all time, it’s important, I won’t track you but I expect updates on your way home from school. I also might need to tell you and Duke if my job is keeping me late some evenings, if not all night.” A pause, then: “We’ll discuss it more in-depth when and _if_ it happens.”

“Alright.”

Jason’s not sure why Clarks hesitated, though he’s not entirely stupid. He knows it’s likely the man was told not to leave him alone, or even with only Duke as company. His repeated history as a runaway isn’t exactly a secret for anyone involved with his life. Been going on since he was ten.

Clark and him share a knowing look, and that ignites anger in Jason. He is _seventeen_, for fuck’s sake, he can take the truth. He expects it.

He’s still amazed to receive it.

“I’m not supposed to give you much unsupervised time during the day, and none at all during the night, but I think it won’t do you any good to only be at school and at home, so let’s strike outing deals as things come up and when you need air.”

At that moment, it hits the boy tenfold: Clark is too soft to understand. For Jason to understand him, and for him to understand Jason. There’s no doubt he’s capable of anger, he’s _human_, however it’s both a consolation and a fear to find that it doesn’t appear to be his default setting.

A consolation, because Jason could live with not having to deal with someone else’s anger for once, will always welcome peace, and is tired to fight.

A fear, because dealing with people’s anger is what Jason knows to endure best, to internalize most, and to relate to close enough to hold on to the certitude that angry people _get him_, that there’s a link there, perhaps a tiny fraction of mutual expectations.

Clark is not like this. Jason smiles at him and pretends he’s not drowning. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Clark stays quiet for a bit. Crosses his arms. “Okay, last few rules. You get weekly pocket money to spend _almost_ however you want, but should you need anything for school or for the house, please tell me, and we’ll go shopping together. No food or hot beverages in the bedrooms. Dating rules are that going out with someone your age is allowed, but there’s no getting anyone pregnant nor fooling around unprotected.”

At this, Jason scoffs and smirks. “_That_ chill, uh?”

“I draw a line at drugs and smoking.”

“Right.”

_Right_. Jason hopes it sounded neutral enough, or at least not too suspicious. The last time he snuck out to smoke was in December, three months ago, and Derek almost caught him then.

Judging by his tone, though, Clark is very serious. Whatever. _Six months — _Jason can deal. He’s got a more pressing concern. “School?”

Clark blinks. “_Yes_, of course. You’re going to a nearby high school, the same one Duke is attending. You start on Thursday, I’m sorry it’s not earlier, but the administration still needs some time. They’ll process your file and decide on your schedule soon, they’re on half-break until Tuesday and have a sport day on Wednesday. We must be patient.”

“Will they…” Jason shivers. He’s shoved this worry to the back of his mind for the last two days, but there’s no escaping it now. “I was attending extra classes here and there to catch up on some stuff so I’d graduate this summer. Can I do this there too?”

“Well…” Clark’s expression falls. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure.They _do_ have some summer school programs, though, so you might still graduate then. Let’s discuss it with them after we know your situation for sure.”

“I can’t _not_ graduate,” Jason stresses, his voice trembling a bit. (He’s scared. He’s angry. He’s scared.) “I’ll be eighteen in August.”

“You…” Clark searches for his words. He seems concerned, and Jason knows it’s because he can’t hide his bad physical response to this potential bad news. It takes a lot from him to not scratch his hand again, he needs to settle down. There’s _wood dust on the floor_.

He crosses his arms, and at the same time, Clark reaches out to him and squeezes his right shoulder. “I understand,” he says. “We’ll figure it out.”

Jason nods. He is searching for lies in the man’s gaze, but again, there is none. Sure, he could be reading this wrong, however there’s not much more he can do than trying not to fall for obvious baits or botched truths.

A shudder passes through him and makes him feel othered from his own body again. He’s tired. He feels gross. Clark’s watch beeps again — six o’clock. He clears his throat.

“Okay, so here’s the plan. I’ll work from home this week so I can stay with you until you can go back to school. We can get to know each other better, go somewhere, or… anything. All up to you.”

“I won’t be a bother.”

Clark sighs. “Now,_ kid... _It’s not a bother having you here, it’s a _choice_. I chose to take you in, if you _wanted_ me to, and really I’m relieved you took me up on the offer.”

Each extra minute with this man leaves Jason with more and more reasons to run away; he can’t deal with kindness. He doesn’t know how. He doesn’t _trust it_, it never comes for free, and he’s so damn broke of money and mind, he can’t afford to rack up a tab.

Clark makes a first motion toward the door, but stops midway. “Before I forget, do you go to church? temple? mosque? Any worship?”

“No.”

“Okay. I attend church services on main occasions, but you don’t have to come with. Duke usually doesn’t. We’ll sort things out in the moment.”

Jason nods. Clark studies him one last time. “I’ll go do some chores and prep dinner now. Is chicken filet okay? I’m afraid I don’t qualify as a chef.”

“Anything is fine. Always happy to eat.”

“Great.” He is smiling again, though it’s a little strained. “I’ll call you when food is ready, alright? You can relax for now, take a shower, read, set up the laptop… all up to you. Duke will be back soon, we’ll sit down to eat then. There are towels and other things in the bathroom for you, we labeled your shelf, so you’ll find it easily. If you’re missing anything, please ask, and I’ll provide.”

“Thanks.” When Clark starts walking away, Jason hesitates a second, then calls, making the man face him again: “_Eh_. Really, I mean it. Thank you.”

Clark’s grin is soft. It reaches his eyes. “It’s good to have you with us.”

Jason possesses a grand total of one jacket, one scarf, one winter cap, one backpack, two pairs of shoes, two pants, two sweaters, two pajamas, four tops, five pairs of socks, and seven undies. The shoes, the jacket and the scarf were left downstairs, and the rest is barely fitting in the sport bag on his bed. Most items are dirty and rest in a plastic bag, separated from the clean side. Jason forgot to ask about the laundry, or Clark forgot to tell him, so the teen doesn’t know what to do of it just now. Can he even wear pajamas in the evening? Should he stay in normal clothes until he goes to bed? What are the rules for this?

He takes a deep breath. A second one. A third. It’s pretty useless stress.

He guesses that eventually, he’ll find out. He’ll ask at dinner, be told, and will then see if he can clean at least some of the dirty clothes tonight. In the meantime, he leaves them in the sport bag, puts it at the bottom of the wardrobe, and sorts the last few pieces of clothing on higher shelves for a better reach.

He longs for a shower — a second one today. Since he knows he can go, he grabs his last clean t-shirt, a clean boxer and his tiny bathroom essentials bag, then scurries to the bathroom.

It’s well lit and not as cold a space as Jason thought it would be, and the lock on the door, to his relief, seems reliable and sturdy. There’s a sink on the right side of the room, a mirror glass double-door cabinet above it and a blurred dormer window standing even higher, almost to the ceiling, as well as a large closet against the wall adjacent to the door. On the farther right side of the room, behind the sink, three towels are hanging from wide holding hooks with names on each of then. The shower is not delimited by any sort of platform, only separated from the rest of the space by an opaque, white curtain that circles the farther left corner of the room, while the floor inclines slightly toward that same corner to let the water escape through a grid Jason almost doesn’t notice at first.

And perhaps it’s silly, paranoid, a very unhealthy thought and a bad habit to have, perhaps it should tell him that he has a _problem_, but Jason does it anyway—search for cameras. Goes all around the room. Opens the cabinets, the closet. Fears seeing someone behind him when his eyes flick to the mirror. Worries about the glass of the dormer window.

It takes him several minutes to calm down. He moves things around the sink, reorganizes them by theme.

His heart rate runs too fast. The three shelves inside the cabinet above the sink are clean, with name tags on the side—Jason’s is at the bottom, full of brand new essentials—but there’s no common organization to the items stored there, no symmetry. He corrects this.

Should he take this shower hot or cold? The inside of the closet is mostly clean and neat, however the home pharmacy supplies on the middle right shelf are a mess. Jason sorts it by type of care. 

After a _lot_ of minutes, and although he’s still not entirely convinced there’s nothing fishy around him, he takes off his clothes and wonders if he can drop his top and undies in the dirty laundry basket he found on the lower left side of the closet. Can he mix his stuff with Clark’s and Duke’s? Again, he could just ask. The answer will likely be _yes—_come on now, would they separate everyone’s things for half a year? (Though it wouldn’t surprise Jason much, on reflection.)

In the end, he decides to leave his top and underwear on the floor by the door, hangs his toiletry bag, pants and sweater on the side of the sink, then steps under the shower head. He pulls the curtain around him and tries to understand the way the shower works. As soon as he does, he opens the faucet.

He sets the water on hot, too hot maybe, burning against his skin. It doesn’t bother him much. There are several bottles of shampoo hanging from a steel basket screwed into the wall; once Jason feels more relaxed, he turns off the water, then picks the most neutral-looking bottle. The blemish on his left index, the one that’s been slightly breaking all day, stings and starts itching again at the contact with the chemicals.

Jason turns the water back on and wonders how long he can stay under this warmth before only cold water is left, leaving Duke short on comfort. A bit more? Maybe just a bit more. He needs be here a bit more.

He inhales and exhales deeply a few times, coughing in the process, trying to decide what he should process or at least reflect on first. It comes to it fast, of course—_the_ _Waynes_. The whole situation with them. It was clear right from the start, at the police station, that Clark and this family are close, alright, but to learn that he and Duke actually spend ‘_most_’ of their weekends with them…

This is _really_ close. Suspiciously so. Jason can’t decide whether Clark, being a journalist and all, covers up enough shit on Bruce Wayne’s behalf to be invited to Saturday dinner, or if these two are fucking and this is a much different mess altogether.

Jason thinks it’s option two. Has to be, because the other one... he doesn’t want the other one. He won’t ask Clark directly, he wouldn’t even know how, however he _does_ hope to uncover this over dinner. After all, if he’s gonna live here, he’d rather know.

Would they even tell him if that were indeed the case, though? They could be thinking Jason would run to the press and spill the beans to make some money, or something of that type. And of course he would never, on principle, but he guesses he understands the doubt.

Anyway. _Six_ _months—_he can shut up. Still, he wants to know. To _plan_. Because the thing is, these two being together would make those shared weekends far less likely to avoid, and that in turn would mean for Jason to have to mentally prepare himself for it all, for yet _another_ temporary family, more people and more trouble.

Jason turns off the water, steps out of the shower space, and wraps himself in the surprisingly giant towel Clark has left here for him to use.

There’s a lot on his mind. There’s nothing in his stomach.

He is sitting on his bed, has taken the wood dust off the floor, and is now trying to set up the laptop when he hears Duke come home and go straight to the shower. Ten minutes later, the teen walks back to his room. Ten minutes after that, Clark calls them both downstairs for dinner.

Jason is on his feet in a flash. He’s not _that_ hungry, but he doesn’t want to upset anyone. Failing to comply in a second to adults’ orders has never really ended all that well for him. He reaches the living room quickly and catches glimpses of Krypto running after something in the garden, where lights have been switched on. He observes her before he climbs the stairs to the kitchen area and starts looking for any help he could give; but Clark, busy mixing a salad at the main counter, has already set up all that’s needed for tonight.

“Jason, hey. How was the shower?”

“Good. Setting up the laptop now.”

“_Good_.” He gestures toward the table. “You sit where you want. Duke and I will be fine.”

He has arranged the plates so that two are one on side and one on the other, center to the plates on theopposite side. Jason is closest to the lone plate—the one he doesn’t want. Being alone on one side will feel like an interrogation. He’d rather not go through one.

He sits down on the opposite side, left plate, just as Clark brings a large salad bowl and a pan full of slightly burned chicken pieces to the table, and Duke climbs the two steps to the kitchen. Jason looks up to meet the other boy’s eyes, but the odd glance he receives in return makes him feel instantly uncomfortable.

“Eh,” Duke starts as he takes the seat behind the lonely plate, “did you move things around in the bathroom?”

Jason’s face and ears are burning. _Oh no_. “Just… straightened up some stuff.”

Duke opens his mouth, but doesn’t answer yet. He sends a quick look in Clark’s direction then brings the chair closer to the table before he finally replies with a simple: “Okay.”

“I won’t—” Really, Jason doesn’t have much of an excuse. He hates himself.“Sorry.”

Clark hums and sits right by him, a basket with bread in hand. “You’re quite organized. It’s a good trait.” He leaves the basket on the table then gives a soft pat on Jason’s shoulder as he adds: “But let’s keep everyone’s mess separate, shall we?”

Jason nods. He worries this means a false start with Duke, but the boy is pretty chill after that, relaxed and smiling and already acting like he has put it behind him. He _did_ sound annoyed, though, so Jason will try to make it up to him later. He knows he fucked up.

Once food is on everyone’s plate, Clark and Duke start asking Jason basic questions, nothing too invasive; if he’s ever left Gotham (no), his favorite school subject (social studies), favorite color (red), what food he doesn’t eat (garlic)… Jason takes this opportunity to ask about the laundry, and Clark tells him that of course he can mix his with theirs, they’re going shopping for more clothes the next day (worrisome), and _yes_, he can already clean some clothes tonight, the machine is in the bathroom by the guest room downstairs.

Although Jason also wants to ask whether he can get a part-time job now or a full-time job in the summer, because he must definitely try and save up a bit before he hits eighteen, he doesn’t dare doing so just yet. Next week, maybe. Or next month. As soon as he will have the reasonable belief that Clark trusts him enough for this and will go kind of over authorities about what Jason can do, where he can be, whom he can be with. It won’t be easy. It’s not for today.

He stays silent, save for his cough. Duke soon starts discussing plans for his own eighteenth birthday, which Jason is informed will happen in late April. Upon hearing this, the question ‘_what then?_’ becomes a scream in the boy’s mind, though he knows not to ask. It’s none of his business, to start, and Duke’s apparent happiness hints at the fact that it doesn’t look like a source of stress for the guy. He probably has good enough a relationship with Clark by now that he doesn’t need worrying about being thrown out once that day will come.

Must feel great. Must be nice. Might be an act.

Jason is almost done with his plate—second serving, alright—and still unsure of when and how to approach the topic of this family’s relationship with the Waynes, when Duke makes mention of plans of going to some 90s style arcade with Dick, Tim and a certain Damian (another Wayne? sounds somewhat familiar) before the winter break ends.

So Jason decides to dive in carefully. “You see the Waynes often,” he muses.

Duke raises an eyebrow. His surprise is genuine. “We… do?”

“Bruce is my partner,” Clark states. “Boyfriend.”

“_Oh_.” Option two. Alright. “Congrats?”

Clark seems confused, but takes it lightly. “Thanks, I guess.”

The teen thinks about this info in silence. He didn’t know for sure, only speculated, so he still hasn’t adjusted to the news. It’s fine. It’s stressful. But it’s fine.

Still, the way Duke stares at him tells Jason that he probably doesn’t _appear_ all that fine.

Clark clears his throat. “If you really don’t want to go to theirs, I can—“

“I won’t mess up any more of your plans.”

“It’s not…” Clark pauses, searching for his words. “You’re part of our plans and we care that you’re comfortable.”

“Yeah,” Duke agrees, a small smile now back on his lips. “It’s a _lot_ of new people and a special situation, true… But they’re cool, you know? All of them. Even Damian has good days, though he’s a gremlin most of the time.”

Clark snorts before he winces. “_Duke_!”

Duke chuckles. “A _lovable_ one,” he amends. “Anyway, don’t worry, they won’t step over your personal space and time. It’s pretty chill. We don’t do anything special, just homework, baking, volunteering, playing video games, taking naps… normal stuff. Family things.”

“It’s not ideal for you, Jason, I understand.”

The boy shrugs. “Known worse.” _And hoped for easier._ “You’ve been dating him long?”

“About… four years?”

“Four _years_?” Now, Jason is too shocked to be nervous. Four years is a _long_ time. His life four years ago was — it doesn’t matter what it was. It was different. Much so. It’s such a significant chunk of one’s life In Jason’s mind and it gives so many weird signals about this situation, he can’t stop himself from wondering out loud: “Why don’t you live together?”

Duke grimaces briefly, while Clark’s half-laughs, half-sighs. Although the tone isn’t exactly bitter, it’s clear he would have liked it had Jason _not_ asked him that. “It’s not so simple,” he replies.

“Now this welcome dinner is turning a little _sad_,” Duke remarks, and it’s not mean or accusatory, only here to defuse the tension. Jason mouthes a penitent _thank you_ when their eyes meet. Duke grins in return.

“Well, at least, there’s ice cream for dessert.” Having said that, Clark starts collecting everyone’s plate. “Jason? What do you eat for breakfast?”

“Whatever there is to eat.”

“Then you are in luck, because we have that. Tea and coffee too. Orange juice as well. Hot cocoa is always an option, morning and evening alike.”

“And there’s marshmallows in a jar, right behind the cocoa box.”

“… _if_ Duke hasn’t eaten them all.”

“Look who’s playing innocent…”

Jason watches the scene unfold without a word. He’s getting lost in thoughts, perhaps too tired after this day to stay put on conversations.

And Clark notices this. He looks almost worried. “Does it sound good?” he asks.

Jason wonders if he’ll ever be as relaxed in these two’s presence as they are in each other’s, if he’ll ever find it in him to let Clark be his temporary dad or anything of the sort, like Duke seems to be doing now.

And then Jason wonders why he’s concerned about it at all, because he knows it’s not for him, it’s not his thing, it’s never been. He won’t have that. They will all be cohabiting together for a while, sure, but that's not the same as a _family_. It’s not. Probably not. Jason thinks it’s not. He was never close enough to anyone in the system to see this type of relationship ever becoming a reality for him, and today is no different. The whole _new, supportive, permanent family_ shit happens to other people only. He’s stopped hoping for this.

“Yeah, it sounds great.”

After they’ve put all the dishes away, Clark shows Jason how to operate the washing machine, then leaves the boy alone for the night. Duke mentions having some homework to do, so all three of them end up splitting in different parts of the house. Jason takes care of his clothes, finishes setting up the laptop (he wants to contact a friend) and, an hour and a half later, goes back downstairs to hang his laundry to dry.

He finds Clark in the room, doing exactly that. He doesn’t want the teen to be overwhelmed tonight, or so he says; it sounds silly, really. Of course Jason is overwhelmed. Everything here is overwhelming.

He bids Clark good night and is met with a kind smile and the same wishes in return. It’s only about nine o’clock, but Jason is exhausted. The climb back upstairs is tenuous. He stops by the bathroom to brush his teeth, hurrying the end of the day. He doesn’t know if the 10 P.M. rule applies also now that it’s a school break or if they are in weekend mode, so just in case, he connects on Twitter and sends Kyle a quick DM about his situation, tells him he’ll get a new phone soon, and asks him not to worry. He doesn’t wait for an answer. He unplugs the laptop, makes his way downstairs, leaves it on the counter, then returns to the room.

He changes into his pajamas, turns on the lamp on the desk and turns off the light on the ceiling, grab a manga from the shelf, and goes to lay above the covers for some quiet pre-sleep time. But fifteen minutes later, when fatigue overwhelms him and he’s about to truly call it a day, a knock on the door startles him.

“Yeah?” he calls, which makes him cough again.

The door opens slowly. It’s Duke. “Hey… may I?” Jason nods. Duke takes three steps inside the room, not letting go of the door handle. “I came to call dibs on the shower tomorrow. I leave early, Dick is teaching me moves at the gym, so…”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Are you okay?” When he asks this, Duke pushes the door so it’s almost closed again. His voice is lower too. “I’ve been there, I know it can—_they_ can—be overwhelming at first. Clark and Bruce. The whole Wayne clan too. But Clark first.”

Jason makes a face, one that he hopes is straight-up telling Duke‘_you don’t say_’. “Yeah.” He sighs. “I’m okay. Promise.” Duke smiles but makes no movement to leave. Jason takes this opportunity to connect. “You’ve been in the system long?”

“Two years and some. I’ve spent most of it with Clark.”

“Then where to?” He sounds warier than he wants Duke to know he is. It’s not great.

But it doesn’t seem to bother the other teen. “College. You?”

Jason shrugs. “Wherever. Work, I hope.”

“Okay.” Duke glances at the door. He keeps his left foot pressed against it, so although it’s still technically open, they have some privacy here. Perhaps he doesn’t want Jason to feel trapped, but also doesn’t want Clark to hear? Whatever that boy is thinking, Jason is fine with.

“Do you have any family?” Duke asks.

“No.” Jason’s heart beats fast again. He doesn’t want to remember. He needs to change the subject, bring it back to Duke instead. “You do?”

“Yeah, a cousin. Same name as yours, in fact. He wasn’t even nineteen when I entered the system, he was and still is on a college scholarship in Central City. His family is in Canada, my mom was originally from there too. When she and my dad died I didn’t want to mess up my cousin’s plans, and DCFS probably wouldn’t have let me go with him anyway, so... Yeah.” He stays quiet for a moment. It’s hard to know what he might feel. After a sigh, he continues: “Jay is still good to me though, swore he’ll move to Gotham as soon as he’ll graduate and pursue something here. We talk daily. We’re pretty close.”

“Sounds nice.”

He needs Duke to leave. He likes the guy alright—or well, he doesn’t know him yet. But sure, Duke seems chill, friendly, someone with whom Jason doesn’t mind sharing a house. It’s not about that. It’s the anxiety.

And it only grows when he realizes that Duke is staring in a way that tells Jason he’s being _seen_, that this guy knows what’s up with him, at least enough to make Jason curl his hands into fists so tight, he’s pretty sure he’s gonna leave some scratching marks inside his palms.

But Duke is very calm when he rests his whole body against the door. He’s not _judging_ Jason. His voice is quiet, loud enough only for them to hear.

“Look, I know it’s difficult to trust people around here, but I want you to know: Clark is a good man. He has his moments of course, like everyone does, and he can win yelling matches alright, but he’s not _like that_. He is kind. There’s no string attached when he does things for you, he only wants to do it and tries to follow the cues. He’s observant and sincere, so you can always go to him with your problems.”

He stops here for a moment. Jason unclenches his fists.

Did Clark send Duke to tell him this? Unlikely. Jason doesn’t get that vibe from him—from _either_ of them, really. The way Duke speaks is flowing, his body language is relaxed, the tone is emotional… the whole nine yards. He’s not lying, or he’s a class A liar. Jason is cautiously ready to believe it’s the former.

Though what he hears Duke add right then makes him tense up in a second again.

“And Bruce is kind too and a good man in his own right. Different demeanor, though, he can be a _bit_ intense. It takes some getting used to.”

“Do I _have_ to?” Jason snaps.

He regrets it instantly. It’s the worries. It’s the stress. He’s not proud of his reaction, of the anger, and it’s not because he doesn’t feel this way (he does) but because his words hurt Duke, visibly so, and that wasn’t the plan for tonight.

He gets up from the bed to apologize, stumbles on his words. “Sorry, it’s…”

Duke’s frown deepens. He sounds almost agitated, all of a sudden. “It’s not because they’re both men, is it?”

It’s not—_oh_. Of course. Jason hadn’t thought of that. He blinks in surprise. “No, not at all.” He looks Duke straight in the eye. He needs him to know he’s telling the truth. “It’s not it, I swear. I’m sorry, I’ve had a long week.”

Duke’s expression softens. It’s not completely back to what it was, but it’s a start. “It’s okay, I understand.” They stay silent long enough for them both to let the tension in the room calm down. Duke soon shows Jason this face people make when they suddenly remember a message they forgot to deliver. “Ah, yeah, by the way, Tim and Cass asked for your number or social media handles. If that’s alright with you?”

“Oh...”

_Is that alright?_ He kinda liked Cass. Tim seemed okay too. He’s bound to meet them again, at one point or another.

Still, Jason can’t convince himself. “Maybe later. I won’t have a phone ‘til tomorrow, so…”Half a lie. It’s not the reason. It’s a _problem_, sure, but… anyway. Not the reason.

Duke looks like he knows it’s not about that. He doesn’t address it. “Yeah, I get that.” He smiles and rolls his shoulders. He’s tired too, and it shows. He turns around and releases the door from his hold. “Eh, I’m beat, I’m gonna go—“

“So will I—“

“Good night?”

“Thanks, and same. See ya.”

It takes Jason a long time to fall asleep after that.

The following day, Friday, is a partial blur. Jason argues with Clark for the first time in the mall. It’s nothing too serious, a mere difference of opinion regarding how many new outfits is too little or too many. Jason caps it at three; Clark believes it should be ten. They compromise on five and a new pair of shoes. His new phone is much nicer than what he’s used to, which makes him feel bad somehow. Also, and he isn’t sure how, but he ends up getting a new backpack thrown on his lap when they go back to the car. By the time they make it home, Jason must look thoroughly worn out, because Duke chuckles when he sees him and pats his arm in sympathy. They eat pizza for diner. Kyle has replied to the online message with about a thousand words and too many question marks. Jason can’t really find answers to that. He gives his friend his new phone number and proceeds to mute his notifications for now. Before he sleeps, he cleans the bathroom sink twice and folds his laundry three different ways, four times.

On Saturday morning, Duke invites him to the arcade. It’s the plan he mentioned, the one with Dick and Damian. Jason doesn’t want to bother them. He declines, and thankfully, Duke understands without him needing to explain. Perhaps he too, at first, has been where Jason is now. Between himself and a lack of space. Shortly after Duke leaves and Clark retreats to his home office for a while, Jason finds a sponge and some soap under the kitchen sink. He cleans up the counters and wipes barely-here dust off the chairs and the cupboard for thirty minutes, then hangs out with Krypto in the garden until lunch time. Duke comes back then, and that afternoon, Clark takes them to the movies and to an ice cream shop. It’s so cliché, but if he’s honest, Jason doesn’t really mind that.

He takes two showers on Sunday because he needs to cry twice.

Duke comes back home almost thirty minutes after curfew on Monday, and although Clark reprimands him sternly and grounds him for a week for it, at least neither of them is yelling. Still, Jason shivers. The whole time. After it’s over. The diner is tense but by the end of it, Duke apologizes and Clark gives him half a hug in return. Jason isn’t convinced that he didn’t imagine the scene. He has trouble falling asleep, _again_, and when he goes back downstairs at nine thirty for a glass of water, he finds that Clark is already here, leaning back against the kitchen counter, reading notes and drinking tea. The man gives one look at Jason before he offers to make him a mug of hot cocoa. Even though his mind answers ‘_yes’, _the boy hears himself say ‘_no’. _He misses Kyle. He quickly climbs back upstairs without having drunk anything at all, and goes to sleep parched.

On Tuesday morning, before leaving for school, Duke gently reminds him that Tim and Cassandra, and apparently Dick as well now, would like to get his phone number so they could chat a bit before they meet again. Jason is too tired to welcome this stress. He just shrugs and wishes Duke a good day, which is met by a worried glance, a small smile, and a low ‘_thanks_’. The thing is, Duke has had Jason’s number since Saturday, so that means he hasn’t shared it this entire time. Jason is grateful for this, for sure. It is always a relief to know he has this kind of ally here. Duke is easily in the top three best foster brothers he’s ever had. That afternoon, while they’re binge-watching a show, Clark offers again to make him some hot cocoa, and Jason doesn’t turn it down. The marshmallows in it are the sweetest he’s ever tasted.

Things take a turn on Wednesday.

Jason is awaken too early by knocks on his door and Clark calling his name. He springs into a seating position in a flash, his respiration strained. He doesn’t even have time to tell the man to come in before the door opens, and Clark stands right there in what vaguely looks like a complete outfit already. Jason’s eyesight is still too poor. Clark’s hurried speech doesn’t help the situation.

“Hey, I’m so sorry, Jason, can you be dressed and ready to go _really_ soon? Don’t worry about breakfast, you’ll get it in forty minutes or so.”

It’s still so dark outside. Jason’s brain fog thins too slow. He aches from the interrupted sleep, and to his frustration, the mention of having to be_ ready to go _sends him on an emotional ride rilled with panic and worry.

“What’s wrong?” he croaks.

“Wrong? _Oh_.” Clark raises his hands in front of him. “No, please don’t panic, it’s just work. Something urgent came up, I must be there quickly and I can’t leave you here alone.” Jason shoots him a glance that he hopes won’t be seen as _too_ hostile, prompting Clark to clarify: “I’m sorry, the rules—“

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, I know.” The teen switches on the lamp on the desk, then rubs his cheeks and his eyes a couple of times. He’s feeling lightheaded, as expected, but he thinks he can do it. After all, he’s used to emergencies by now. He’s even mastered pretending that he’s not affected by it anymore. “I’ll be downstairs in ten.”

“Thanks.”

When the door closes, Jason takes a deep breath and presses the side of his head against the wall. It helps him settle down. His heartbeat is still set on awry and his lungs are struggling to wake up. It hits him that he’s either gonna have to go with Clark to wherever the man is working today (and he’s fine with this) or that it will not be possible so instead he’ll end up with some babysitter somewhere (and he’s _not_ fine with that).

The thought that said babysitters could be the Waynes crosses his mind, and then it stays. It stays. It stays. It’s still here when he gets up, his legs wobbly and his arm weak. It’s still here when he drags clean clothes to the bathroom. It’s still here when he cleans up, it’s still here when he gets dressed, when he realizes he won’t see Duke leave for school. It persists when he goes back to the bedroom to prepare his bag with books and his phone charger. It’s the reason he forgets his phone upstairs and has to run from the car to there and back to retrieve it, confusing Krypto in the process. It’s giving him shivers when he fastens his seatbelt, when Clark starts the engine, when they leave the garden.

He has to know for sure, fast, so as soon as they’re on the street, he asks: “To the Waynes, uh?”

Clark frowns. “You… yes.”

Jason audibly breathes in and out and sets on staring at his window. He doesn’t want Clark to see just how bothered he is, how _scared_ really. Angry too. Frustrated. So many things.

“Sorry,” Clark continues with a sigh. He _does_ sound apologetic. “There’s no other place I can drop you off for the day, I can’t have you tag along with me on the field. The kids have school and Bruce has to go to work, though, so technically you’re having _breakfast_ with the Waynes, and after that you’ll be alone with Alfred, the butler. He’s everyone’s favorite and will be good to you, I promise. I’ve sent him a text, they know to expect you. You can play video games all day if you want, I won’t mind. I feel guilty to have to send you there alone, but—”

“I _know_. Rules.” Jason doesn’t mean to be difficult so early in the morning. Really, he’s — he’s all of these things he hates. All these feelings he can’t help. He’s already twisting his fingers too much. He doesn’t need anyone to hate him more than he hates himself. “It’s okay.”

“You’re short of breath. It’s not okay.”

They don’t speak for some time. Jason doesn’t want to talk. Traffic is fluid around them, though it gradually gets more dense. Soon, they cross the river and arrive in a less residential area, scarcer and bigger houses standing almost outside Gotham city. Clark slows down the car then. “Listen, I’ll be back around two or three this afternoon, before most of the household, and we’ll go straight back home then. I’ll make it up to you somehow.”

This kindness again. It stresses Jason out, making him too wary to avoid mumbling: “Fuck’s sake—”

“_Language_,” Clark scolds him; however, four seconds later, he amends: “Though I guess I’ll give you a pass today.”

“You don’t have to sound so _worried_ all the time.” Jason is more alert now. He looks at Clark when he speaks. He sees the grief in the man’s frown and hears the nuances in his tone.

“I… Right. You’re right.” Clark sighs again. “It’s just not exactly the first week with us that I’d envisioned for you.”

“Yeah, well, life’s a mess.” Jason inhales sharply. “I’ll be alright.”

“I trust you will.”

The road gets narrower there, the gardens taller. It’s six thirty-four and Jason assumes they’re about to reach their destination. Clark slows their speed again. He has more to say.

“So—the Waynes. You already know Tim and Cassandra, and Dick is living on his own closer to the campus, so he won’t be here today. You’ve met Bruce, albeit briefly. That leaves Alfred and Damian.”

“The gremlin.”

“_Jason...”_

The tone doesn’t sound all that disapproving, rather a mixture of annoyed and amused. Jason snickers. He tries not to read into this too much, but to be privy of a family inside joke makes him feel included, more relaxed now. A few yards in front of them, on the right, stands a gray and gigantic house barely visible behind trees and a secured black gate. Clark sighs.

“Look, it’s true that Damian can be… _difficult_. His tongue is sharp. But he’s very sweet of heart, don’t get it wrong, we all love him and he loves us back.”

He makes the turn to the right, briefly stops the car in front of the gate, grabs an electronic key from behind his sun visor, brings it to the door log and types in an additional code on the numerical pad. Jason follows the movements and waits for whatever else Clark is about to say. The guy looks almost sad, all of a sudden, when he restarts the car and enters the property.

“Still, the thing is, there’s a high chance he’ll reject you today, and not kindly at that, but I want you to remember that this is nothing _personal_. It’s not you. He has good reasons, and Bruce and I will do our best to manage that, but as it is… Well, it should get better. Give it some time. He’s just a kid — a brilliant one. If it can help you connect with him at all, he likes animals.”

“I get it, it’s fine. _Good_ demon, can be bribed with cats.”

Clark‘s chuckle is shaky. “He could be, alright.” He parks the car quite close to the main entrance of this ridiculously large, slightly eerie building. Jason doesn’t even attempt to take in the size and neatness of the garden and instead stares at Clark, who asks: “Feeling ready?”

“Dunno.”

“_Ah_.” He seems taken aback, but that’s it. No fuss. He gives Jason a reassuring smile, unfastens his seatbelt and opens his door, all while enjoining the teen to do the same. “That’s fine. Let’s go greet them together.”

They exit the car and walk up a small flight of stairs. Before they can even reach the top of it, the wooden door opens. An old man emerges from it, dressed in a suit and beaming at them. He seems kind enough, at least for now, from what Jason can see. Two large dogs, a great dane and a german shepherd, dart toward Jason, whom Clark protects from their enthusiastic jumps. The boy pets them once or twice before they obey Alfred’s command for them to go run elsewhere in the garden. Clark goes to greet the butler with a close handshake.

“Good morning, Alfred.”

“Good morning, Master Kent. It’s always good to see you.” The old man then turns to Jason and offers him his hand. “And you must be Master Jason. It is lovely to meet you.”

Jason blinks. The whole _Master_ thing makes him freeze in place for a second. He shakes the butler’s hand, barely managing a quick ‘_hello_’ at that time. Duke had warned him, of course. It’s only surprising hearing it in person. Jason can’t fight this, he’s been told, so he lets it go.

Alfred invites them inside, but Clark declines; he’s already late, he must leave. They exchange parting words and Clark gives Jason some last minute encouragements. The boy waits until the car has left his line of sight before he gets into the house. 

The butler asks him about platitudes (Jason only half-answers) and informs him that everyone else in the house is upstairs, waking up just now or getting ready for school and work, soon coming downstairs for breakfast—but Jason can dig in before they arrive, it’s fine. He must be hungry. (He is.)

Jason tries not to see everything around him. He doesn’t know how to process it. When they enter the kitchen, it’s the most standard and somewhat normal sized part of the house he’s seen so far. Alfred points to a chair between two others, the back of it to the stove, and starts listing everything Jason can have to eat and drink.

But all of this... no, it won’t do. Jason would feel awkward sitting here on his own and getting served breakfast by a butler. It’s not him, so instead, he asks if he can help setting the table. Alfred hums, as if thinking about it, before he thanks the boy and accepts his offer.

He instructs Jason on where to find what, how many plates to bring, what milk they take in the morning. There’s a narrow service door in one corner of the kitchen, and the dogs soon come to beg for entrance back into the house. Alfred lets them in. Jason plays with them for a minute, until the german shepherd goes to sit under the table and the great dane trots away, to somewhere else in the house. Behind him, the butler turns on the coffee maker and the boiler for the tea.

Jason is washing his hands in the sink when he hears voices getting closer. He recognizes them even before Bruce Wayne and Tim get through the door. The german shepherd goes to them instantly.

Tim, sporting what looks like a school uniform, is the first one to come greet him. His smile is soft and sincere, something Jason doesn’t understand, given the phone number debacle. Why is this still a thing even, anyway? Why not give his number to people he’ll often see? Jason forgot. Maybe he had a rationale at first, but it’s escaping him right now. He knows it’s stupid. He should correct that.

While Tim goes to greet Alfred and waits for bread to be ready in the toaster, Bruce Wayne, dressed all in black again, sends the dog back under the table. He approaches Jason and quietly wishes him good morning. The teen is glad to be busy drying his hands a second time, because it gives him something else to focus on than his heartbeat racing again.

He knows he’ll have to get used to this man’s presence somehow, used to speak his name, used to foster some degree of connection with him. Sure, Jason could probably limit seeing him a little or a lot, if he only _asked_, but he doesn’t want to break this family apart. To break Clark’s heart. These things aren’t his, he can’t. He’s wrecked enough stuff as it is, in his seventeen years of life, and that is enough. More than enough.

“Hello,” he replies. “Thanks for having me.”

“No trouble at all.”

Bruce walks past Jason, grabs a mug, and pours hot water in it. He sits on the chair in the corner opposite to where Alfred told Jason he could sit. The boy is fine with that. He seats down and waits for the rest of the family to arrive. Tim comes to sit by his side, right in front of his dad, who smiles at him and is almost immediately distracted by the buzzing of his phone. It’s a call, so he walks away to answer it. Jason starts buttering some bread.

“I’ll give you my phone number,” he tells Tim.

“You don’t have to, that’s fine. But how about I give you mine? You can get it from Duke. You start the conversations.”

Tim is serious. Jason wasn’t expecting that. He’s about to reply something, he doesn’t yet know what, when the great dane comes back and runs through the kitchen, going to lay under the table too. Jason worries he’s gonna kick either or both dogs by accident now.

He doesn’t have time to worry so much about it, though, because a small kid gets into the kitchen at that moment. He’s wearing the same school uniform than Tim, is visibly grumpy, and looks at Jason with a level of wariness the teen had thus far thought he’d only ever find in his own eyes.

Damian doesn’t make a single move toward Jason, so Jason makes one first. He gets up and extends his hand above the table.

“Hey, I’m Jason.”

But the kid doesn’t move. His frown is too serious and hostile for that of a child. Jason now gets the gremlin thing, though he can’t quite believe just yet the kind words Clark and Duke spoke about Damian.

Whatever. He doesn’t want conflict and he doesn’t need the approval. The kid will have to speak to him eventually anyway. Jason can wait until it happens.

He sits back down and shrugs. “Alright.”

“_Damian_.” Bruce Wayne is back in the vicinity. He scowls and stares at his youngest son with narrow eyes, though his tone is not as harsh. “Be polite and kind. Jason has done nothing to you, he’s here to share our breakfast today and will be part of our lives for now. I expect you two to get along. Apologize.”

Alfred puts a pot of coffee on the table, loudly enough that the impact has to be intentional. Damian hesitates, but eventually locks eyes with Jason. His voice is raspy from sleep.

“I’m sorry.”

“No worries.”

“Jason,” Tim cuts in, “do you drink coffee or tea?”

“Coffee.”

“Rule here is only half a cup if you’re not eighteen yet.”

“I can live with that.”

“Milk?”

“No thanks.”

Damian carries a mug of hot water to the table. To Jason’s surprise, this kid sits in front of him and doesn’t stare while he picks and tears a tea bag from a bowl left in the center of the table. Bruce types away on his phone, puts it back in his pocket, then comes to sit back on his chair, right by Damian. He squeezes the kid’s shoulder and asks him to eat something too, not just drink tea.

Cassandra enters the room just as Jason finishes both his bread and his coffee. She is wearing an uniform quite similar to those her brothers wear, and is carrying her phone with her. She smiles at Jason and waves her left hand in greeting, before she shows her phone to her father.

“Dance club meeting at three,” she says. “I will be home around four.”

Bruce frowns. “So will Tim, right?” Tim nods. Bruce hums and whispers to Cassandra to get started on breakfast, as it is getting late. When she sits down on the other side of Damian, Bruce gets the kid’s attention by lightly poking his forearm. “Since neither of them can drive back with you today, I’ll ask Clark to come collect you from school around two. I’ll drop you off myself this morning.”

Damian nods and gulps his tea. “Very well.”

“You can pick the music.”

Bruce’s offer makes Damian smile. A real big grin. Jason much prefers this aura from him to the one he had before, but just as he thinks this, the kid’s gaze falls on him and the hostility is back. _Great_. Jason tries not to care. He feels Bruce’s stare on him as well and returns it, unintentionally pushing back on his chair.

“You’re welcome to stay for supper too. Clark and Duke wouldn’t mind, they’d likely join us in fact.”

Jason misses a breath. “Thanks, but…” But what? Plenty of reasons to choose from. Jason doesn’t know which one would be both the most truthful and acceptable enough. He ends up saying nothing at all, his mouth sewn in a tight line, and the silence sucks. The billionaire’s presence is putting more pressure on him than the boy thinks he can stand.

Alfred’s voice, in this moment, sounds like a miracle. “Children, quickly now. Time is running out. You all came downstairs a tad late today again, you really need to be more mindful of this. Five more minutes for breakfast, five extra upstairs to gather your things, then _all_ of you __should go__.”__

Jason gathers that the old man also includes Bruce in his statement. This is confirmed by the brief and apologetic smirk that appears on the man’s lips, soon replaced by an expression most neutral. Cassandra and Damian pick up the pace a little, while Tim serves both Jason and himself a glass of apple juice.

Shortly, Alfred starts putting away dirty dishes and utensils. The pace of his speech increases by the second. “Master Tim, please don’t forget your vitamins. It’s also colder today than it was yesterday, shouldn’t you add an extra layer before you leave? You too, Miss Cassandra, please take gloves with you at least. Master Damian, have you fed your dog?”

“_And_ the cats, yes.”

Bruce instantly looks interested or shocked to hear that. “Did you say _cats_? Plural?”

Damian gawks at his father in disbelief. “I can’t let a stray die if I can help it, can I?”

“You…” Bruce doesn’t finish this sentence. Instead, he lowers his head and sighs. “Okay, upstairs. The three of you, upstairs. Everyone hurry up now.”

Tim doesn’t even bother concealing a breathy laugh. He gets up from his chair and taps Jason’s shoulder in acknowledgement. Cass finishes her tea and she and Damian get up from their respective chairs at the same time. The dogs follow them all in the hallway as they disappear to their rooms.

Bruce relaxes in his chair. “It’s probably calmer at Clark’s.”

“We’re not as many.”

Bruce grunts in response. He looks older than Clark, not by a lot, but older enough for someone really two years younger—Jason asked Duke about that. He only relies on Duke’s words about them. Still no Google search he wishes to work through.

Alfred finally pours himself a cup of hot water. He sits down where Damian was and takes his time choosing a tea. Ho opts for lemon this time. “I hope to be of good company today, Master Jason. I look forward to getting to know you better. What would you like to do? Touring this place might already take us some time.”

The boy shrugs. “I’m not high maintenance. Anything is fine.”

“Very well, then.”

“I must go.” Bruce gets up and takes his dirty mug to the dishwasher. “I’ll try to be back before five. Perhaps I’ll see you then, Jason.”

“What of the stray cat?” Alfred asks.

Bruce groans. “Well, Damian has a point, and I’d hate to upset him when he’s doing something good, but… We have enough cats and dogs, I’m afraid. I’ll figure something out.”

Alfred sips on his tea, asserts: “Surely your animal-hugging son will understand if you tell him you want the cat to get more attention and care somewhere it won’t have to compete for it with five other pets.”

“You’re right. As usual.” Bruce takes a peek at his phone again and puts it back in his pocket one last time before he takes his leave. “Have a good day, you both. See you later.”

“See you.”

“Be careful on the road.”

Jason recalls Clark saying something similar to Duke. Alfred might indeed be what Bruce has left that’s closest to a parent. The teen starts on this thought for a minutes or so, but them it hits him suddenly that he might have missed his chance to say goodbye to the Wayne kids before they leave for good.

Alfred seems, _again_, to be reading his mind. “Shall we see them out?” he asks.

So they do that. They get to the wide lobby behind the entrance just as Damian is crossing it, his last glance in Jason’s direction far from the picture of peace. When he opens the door to leave, he tells the great dane behind him to stay put, and Jason is impressed to find that the animal obeys the command. A minute later, Cassandra and Tim are coming down a long flight of stairs from the upper level of the house. They both say goodbye to Jason in kind manners, and in turn, he asks Cassandra for her number. She stays behind for a minute to enter it in his phone, then scurries to join her brother. Bruce and Damian exit the property in a black car at the same time.

Spending the day with Alfred turns out to be a relaxed affair. The butler hooks Jason up with video games, movies, books, and a bowl of chocolate snacks (“_Master Kent insisted_”), all in a room downstairs that appears to be some sort of entertainment space for the Wayne kids. Everything here is shiny and expensive, however not in a way that is remotely enjoyable in Jason’s mind. He manages to ignore this feeling after about an hour, but even then, it’s only because he’s anxious enough t the idea of needing to create some bonds with the Waynes, or because he’s spamming Kyle with memes and receiving silly videos in return. He hurts his left pinky by twisting it weird. He doesn’t report it to Alfred.

At ten o’clock, the butler offers to play Mario Kart on the Wii with him. Jason keeps his comments to himself, and rightfully so, because Alfred ends up winning gold with full points in the three cups they play in mirror mode.

At noon, while the man’s homemade lasagna finishes cooking, Jason and Duke exchange several texts. Duke wants to know that the other teen is fine and, in particular, asks whether Damian has cursed him already or if they’ve gotten along okay enough so far. Jason tempers his concerns. He tries to do the dishes once they’re done eating, but Alfred politely reminds him that there’s a dishwasher in the room. Jason has no argument against this and is not about to tell the truth to a virtual stranger. It’s odd to _need_ this, he knows. So he goes back to the game room.

He’s reading comics on a sofa when he almost falls asleep from the lunch and his exhaustion. He wakes up from it startled, because sure, he could use a nap, however not here—not alone. Not now. Maybe it’s silly, whatever, but it scares him really. Luckily, Clark will be back soon. Until then, Jason will strive to stay wide awake. He’s craving cigarettes again. He wants to go to school. He wishes to be home.

He can’t stop feeling tired so in an effort not to collapse, he goes to find Alfred in the garden and asks if they could do a basic tour of the house. The butler seems surprised, but he agrees. With commentary and frequent breaks to pet the cats upstairs, it takes them about thirty-five minutes to reach the second floor. Jason barely registers the rooms they pass by and hears without listening what Alfred is telling him about the place and the shrubbery.

Clark comes back at two fifteen, Damian right behind him at the door. He greets Jason and thanks Alfred, telling them both to wait a few minutes while Damian retrieves a few things upstairs for him. Jason doesn’t attempt any form of interaction with the child. He is relieved to see Clark here, he can’t care about anything else.

“We’re going back to your place, right?”

He can tell Clark doesn’t quite like this wording; though his smile is still here, some hurt is in his eyes. Jason feels guilty—didn’t think he‘d ever feel guilty over something like that. But it’s done now.

“We are. And we’re taking the cat. Krypto could use a friend.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. Alright. So Bruce _did_ figure it out. Damian comes back downstairs with one of these travel crate for cats, a small folded bed, and a couple of toys.

“Can I come see her sometimes?” he asks. He sounds softer than he did this morning.

“Of course, yes. You know you’re welcome anytime. And don’t worry, kiddo, we’ve had a few cats on the farm along the years. We’ll all take good care of her.”

Jason sees in the glance Damian gives him that the kid doesn’t believe in this ‘we’ if it includes anyone else than Duke and Clark. When the two told Jason this one might be difficult to approach, it was the euphemism of the year.

Clark transfers the accessories to the backseat of the car and gives the cat to Jason. They agree he can carry the crate on his lap during the travel. It takes him and Alfred five good extra minutes to convince Damian that it’s alright, he can let go, Clark knows what he’s doing and this cat will be safe and grow up strong. Eventually, it works.

Jason says goodbye to Alfred, who tells him that he’ll be glad to see him again with ‘_the whole family_’ one of these weekends. Jason smiles, but doesn’t reply. Really, he wants to scream. He says goodbye to Damian too, and to his surprise, the kid acknowledges this with a nod and a low ‘_bye_’. Clark waves in Alfred’s direction and opens his arms to hug Damian who, bewildering Jason further, happily accepts the gesture.This kid will be a nightmare.

They get in the car and drive away from the property. Jason can finally breathe. He holds the cat crate closer, listening to the soft meows coming from.

“How was it?” Clark asks. He sounds cautious.

Jason sighs. “It was alright.” 

“I see.” Clark doesn’t believe him. He sounds and looks uneasy. “Sorry, Jason. I take you in to reduce your stress, but all I’ve managed to do so far is… not it. I’ll do better.”

“You don’t…”

Jason doesn’t know what to say after this. He’s got so much to tell Clark, many words of anger and many others leveled enough that he believes it might make for a productive conversation. But he doesn’t have the strength today. The breakfast alone drained his entire social reserve for the week, and he has to go to a brand new school tomorrow. He doesn’t know how he’ll cope. (That’s untrue, he knows how. It just sucks. It will hurt.)

He bargains without belief. “Can I get _one_ more weekend with just you and Duke at home? Then I’ll follow your usual schedule.”

“Of course,” Clark agrees. It’s unexpected. “By the way, in April, my mother will come to visit us. She normally comes later in the year, but she is excited to meet you and there will be Duke’s eighteenth to celebrate. She’s not the overbearing type, so don’t worry about your personal space, she’ll respect that. She only wants to catch up with us, celebrate Duke, and wish you welcome.”

Jason isn’t sure he enjoys the idea, but what can he say? It’ll happen anyway. He can always retreats to his room for two days if it gets too much, right? He hopes so. His number one fear here might be to mess up their relationship. He keeps this concern under wrap. “Sounds nice.”

They both stay silent for a minute. Jason receives a message on his phone, judging by the buzzing. It’s probably from Kyle. He’ll check it out later.

When they cross the river again, Clarks quietly says: “It’s as good a time as any to tell you I was adopted.”


	3. Chapter 3

Jason surprises himself nine days later, for the first time in a long time, when he wakes up no earlier than when the alarm on his phone rings. Only, it’s not a _good_ surprise. It rather terrifies him. 

He’s become sloppier. It’s not that he trusts more, or that he feels safe—nothing of the sort. He still thinks Clark might snap at any given moment, that Duke could stab him in the back, that someone is going to make him trip and fall again. He always thinks these things about people, at least _most _people, at least most of the time. He knows it’s a bad habit but it’s not what makes him lose vigilance. 

The house seems a bit more familiar by now, is all. It’s almost breathable in there. 

And this isn’t good at all.

Jason gets up quickly and, still dizzy from the rush, grabs the outfit he laid on the back of the desk chair last night, and heads to the bathroom. His knuckles ache from the finger twists and friction movements he’s been doing too much lately. He cut his left thumb on a piece of paper yesterday, and because he’s been picking on it so often and badly, the wound runs up bigger than it started. For now, he chooses to ignore it. 

He walks silently and presses the clothes too tightly against his chest, like a secret or a shame. But it’s his heart he tries to hide. 

The bathroom is warm and the floor is still wet from the shower Clark took, like every morning, about half an hour ago. The cabinet above the sink was left ajar, something Jason sees as a dull sign. He checks twice to make sure the lock on the door is in place before he closes the cabinet and quickly cleans up the mirror, dirtied by fingerprints between yesterday night and now. Only when it’s done, he strips, throws his pajamas into the laundry basket, and steps under the water spray.

His anger is complex and neatly wrapped around his skull, the ache deep in every bone. It burns, it’s buzzing, and the thing is, Jason doesn’t _want_ to feel like this. It’s not even rage: it’s a panic. He knows it’s a panic and has no energy for this. It sucks. His life shouldn’t be so difficult all the damn time. 

The boy closes his eyes, inhales and exhales as slow and steady as possible so to reduce his heart rate and clear his head from the fogs of sleep and worry combined. Though it takes him longer to do so than he hoped, it eventually helps him achieve some rational thoughts. Cracking his neck, he relaxes his spine. 

Perhaps it’s alright if he sleeps until his alarm rings; there’s no doubt he needs the rest, he’s too often exhausted. He’s grown unhealthy and useless from a long-standing lack of sleep in the past, so he knows that isn’t something he’d want to deal with ever again. Besides, who knows if he’ll even be able to sleep as much, if at all, after the system spits him out? Nothing is certain. Nothing is stable—well, maybe _here_ is stable. For now. Maybe Jason wants it to last.

Maybe he feels under attack.

Clark speaks softly, this morning; day two with a sore throat. Duke is still half-asleep during breakfast, with his head dangerously dangling above his cereals. Krypto is playing outside already, while Robin the kitten is trying and failing to jump on the table. Jason is out of sync. 

  
  


He never remembers which brake stops the front tire and which one stops the back tire. It’s been years since he’s owned a bike. He’s not even sure he can really call this one _his_. Only thing that’s for sure is that Duke is more agile and pedals much faster than him but also has the thoughtfulness to slow down every now and then, so Jason still catches up in the end. 

It’s bothersome, of course. Duke used to leave for school later up until a week ago, before he had to show the way to the new kid and wait around for him often enough to reasonably fear being late. 

Jason hopes that he’ll soon be able to recognize the road better, that he’ll hesitate less and pick up the pace as well. There’s a twist of guilt in his guts every time he lags behind and the clock doesn’t stop ticking. He knows it’s a hindrance. Duke not openly showing annoyance doesn’t mean that he’s not in fact annoyed, deep down, that he’s getting less sleep these days. 

“You can go right ahead,” he tells Jason right after they’ve reached their destination and parked their bikes on the rack near the cafeteria. “I’ll lag a bit behind, I’m meeting Isabella. See you at lunch?”

“You don’t have to eat with me.” 

It’s been bugging Jason since day one, though he’s made a point not to vocalize it until now. It wasn’t worth the fight and maybe it’s still not worth it now. But it’s out there, finally, and it’s the truth: Duke shouldn’t _have_ to play babysitter all the time. He should eat with his friends or do whatever it is he wants to do of his free time. Besides, it’s not like Jason _needs_ him; he’s seventeen years old. He’s survived on the streets. He can take care of himself. 

Duke seems taken aback. “What, you don’t _want_ me to?”

“It’s not it.” Jason adjusts his backpack and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He doesn’t know what else to say, just wants to get to class already and escape the situation. He makes sure he locked the front tire of his bike then asks, like every morning so far: “Do you wait for me tonight?”

Duke groans. “Ah, no, _you_’ll have to wait for me…” He looks contrite. “Sorry, I forgot to tell you, I’m staying longer with a study group for a lab project… I guess until about an hour after your tutoring session ends? I’ll try to hurry, promise.” 

Jason doesn’t reply immediately, since he’s trying to quickly work out in his head where he could go for an hour to be left in peace while he waits for Duke to pick him up. The delayed reaction seems to give his foster brother worry. 

“You’ll be okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

What else can Jason say? He will have to make do. He can’t go home alone and that’s not even a location problem, only his life stuck on restricted mode. Not to mention, he’s bothering Duke again. This realization makes him feel dizzy with anger once more, his chest heavy and his throat almost closed. It’s ten seconds of pain. Seven seconds too much.

He walks away from the scene and makes a beeline to the gate and into the lobby. The place is loud and busy, still full of students at this time. Jason doesn’t have a good grasp on his feelings toward this new school yet, though if he had to have one, neutrality would be the word. If it can help him graduate, then that’s enough for him. He’ll think about this time of his life—and how much he misses Kyle—at a later date.

He’s memorized the layout of the place quite well by now and, as such, is quick to make his way toward his group’s morning assembly point. He’s about to enter the classroom when his eyes catch sight of Harper, a friend of Duke’s and the second person who showed him around the school on his first day. The scene makes Jason pause. 

Harper is standing further down the hallway and carrying what appear to be heavy carton boxes, one by one, from a pallet on the floor to a storage closet behind them. They’re doing this task alone, and it seems like a _lot_, between the number of cartons still left to transfer and the student’s wobbly movements. Jason debates it for a moment, but eventually, he walks toward them. 

Thing is, so far, Harper has been chill and helpful to him. Jason wants to be chill and helpful too. 

“Need a hand?” he asks. “The bell will ring soon.”

His classmate looks up and grins. “Thanks.” 

Jason leaves his backpack on the floor, lifts a box and passes it to Harper, who drops it on a shelf to complete the chain. The two work like this in silence, the pace increasing, for a couple of minutes. When most of the boxes are transferred, Jason asks: “What’s in there?”

“School supplies. That’s what students left in the hallway dropping points alone. We were right to install so many donation bins around the school, people really came through… That’s a _lot_ of stuff. Artemis is taking care of what was dropped at the gymnasium and the nurses’ office right now. We’re splitting storage until tomorrow morning, when we’ll deliver it around town.” 

“You two did this?” Jason didn’t mean to sound so surprised. Really, he’s kind of impressed.

Harper shakes their head. “No, we’re a small club here. We organize stuff like this as often as we can and it’s been quite successful so far, though a bit outside our resource budget. You’re welcome to sign up by the way, we wouldn’t turn down help.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Though it’s the standard acceptable answer here, Jason is actually entertaining the idea—more or less. Of course he wants to help, always. But he’ll probably be a hindrance to the group.

For now he focuses on the fact that he’s quite relieved to see that Harper can ask for things and be received favorably. Jason couldn’t block out hearing derogatory comments toward the student while they were showing him around the school last week, so he’s glad to see those were apparently not the opinions of a majority here. He also briefly met the girl Harper mentioned, Artemis, because she came up and chatted for a minute with them in the hallway that day. What Jason recalls most about her is that she is taller than him, a junior, and speaks with a marked accent that hints at her not having lived most of her life around here. 

“Say,” Harper begins, commanding Jason’s attention. “You know the Narrows?” Their tone has changed a little, as has the atmosphere. 

Jason tenses up. If the conversation just entered private territory for Harper, it did so for him as well. “Lived nearby for a while.”

Harper hums and nothing more. Maybe they caught on the boy’s hesitation, or they simply never meant to follow it up with anything in the first place. Jason doesn’t take this silence personally; rather, he welcomes it. This is not a part of his life he wishes to discuss.

He hands over the last of the carton boxes to his classmate, smirking as he hears their sigh of relief. “There.”

“Thanks again. I owe you one.” Harper grabs a key from the back pocket of their jeans and locks the closet. “Eh, you wanna come with us distribute it to schools and tutoring centers tomorrow? It might take several hours, but…”

Jason’s heartbeats speeds up a little. Stress or guilt—whichever fights best right now. “Sorry, I can’t.” He feels bad. He really does. He’s tried to ignore the Waynes as a concept and more so as people, but it’s not working. They don’t cease to exist. Although they’ve only been nice so far, or at least not threatening, Jason can’t shake the uneasiness he feels whenever he thinks about them. It’s not healthy, he’s not healthy.

But he can’t tell Harper that. He doesn’t want them to think that he is bailing without a good reason, either. “My foster family has weekend getaway plans,” he explains.

“Oh.” Harper frowns. There’s a pain in there, though Jason can’t pinpoint what. “I see.”

“Raincheck?”

“Sure. I mean, I hope.” 

They sends Jason an exaggerated glare and crosses their arms for maximum effect. The boy would find it funnier if his brain wasn't so foggy for no reason in that moment. He catches himself picking at the skin around his nails. He doesn’t know when it started this time.

He is about to step away but is interrupted by a high-pitched voice coming from behind him and calling Harper’s name. The students both look toward the source. A girl with long blond hair and dressed in a very 90s jeans fashion outfit, with a green messenger bag in her left hand and her phone clenched in the other, is trotting toward them from the end of the hallway. She sounds a bit out of breath. 

Harper chuckles. “Did you run?” 

“Just jogged from the bus stop ‘til the gates and then some more afterward. Really thought I’d be late.” She smiles, scrunching her nose. She shoves her phone in her pocket and immediately then gives her attention to Jason, holding up her free hand for him to high five. (He does.) “Hi! I’m Stephanie.”

“Jason.”

“Duke’s foster brother, right?” The boy tilts his head reflexively. Stephanie grins in response. “We’re friends. He told me.” She seems about to elaborate, but the school bell startles her before she can. “Ah, well…” She turns to Harper. “I’ll be busy at lunch time today but I wanted to tell you in person: I convinced the rental company to lend us an extra van for free. Just gotta bring another driver with us so we can pick it up tomorrow morning.”

Harper sighs happily, adjusts their backpack and goes on to give the girl a hug. “That’s it. You’re amazing.”

“Thanks.” When Stephanie pulls away, she scrunches her nose again and waves them goodbye before trotting away. “See you around!”

Both Jason and Harper return her parting gesture. They then walk away together and split at the end of the hallway, with Harper needing to speed up to join their classroom by the time the second bell rings. 

Jason struggles to concentrate on anything after that. His head is a sea of tangled thoughts. He can’t differentiate his stress about the nightmares, about the Waynes, about Clark being sick, about Duke possibly not eating lunch with him ever again, about eating at all. Come lunchtime, he avoids the crowd and feels full only munching on bread. When Duke texts him, he answers back that he’s okay, yes he ate, he’s just catching up on homework now. Half a lie. Jason is exhausted. He wants—needs—a cigarette. He can’t go see the Waynes. His guilt over not being able to help Harper is glued to him tight and will not let his skin go. _He_ won’t let his skin go. 

Kyle hugged him last. That was ten weeks ago. Jason would welcome a hug from near anybody right now.

He visits the bathroom attached to the library once his tutoring session ends. It’s nothing he didn’t know today, so there is that. He’s yet to decide where he will go and wait for Duke to be done for the day when, right as he finishes washing his hands for the second time, he unexpectedly receives a text from Clark. Though it gives him a bad feeling, Jason reads it right away.

‘_Did you have a good day? I’m waiting for you outside._’

The boy recoils. Is he in trouble? Unlikely—he’s been on good behavior. Not very social, but not rude either. He’s not skipped school, he’s done his homework, his room is clean and he eats his veggies. It’s not it and that means the most credible reason for Clark being here is that the guy doesn’t trust him to wait for Duke without causing problems. 

Maybe that’s worse than being in trouble. 

Jason scratches the inside of his left wrist too hard and pinches the tender flesh around the base of his right thumb by reflex, then twists all his fingers together trying to stop this nervous streak. His nails are too long. His breath is a bit short. Still, he manages to calm down as he walks through the hallways then steps outside the building. His first instinct is to go visit the bike rack where he left his, so he can retrieve it before joining Clark on the parking lot. 

But, as it turns out, Clark himself is already standing there and staring at the many vehicles lined up in front of him, seemingly trying to pick out Jason’s among these. He looks like he’s freezing under his coat, despite his wide frame. When he raises his gaze toward the teen standing mere feet away from him, he puts on a sheepish grin, something _guilty_ almost. __

_ __ _

Jason can’t help but find the situation a little amusing, if only for the fact that he’s not the one caught in this position this time. “_Stealing_, are we?” he teases.

_ __ _

“And what if someone hears you and starts thinking that I am truly a thief?”

_ __ _

“Doubt they’d call you out, really. You’re _huge_.”

_ __ _

Clark snorts. His voice sounds as strained as it was in the morning, if not more. His smile still harbor an air of reprimand. “Let’s not steal anything today.”

_ __ _

Jason unlocks his bike and pushes it toward Clark’s car. Though he’s trying not to let the situation eat at him, he figures today is still not a good time to talk about being allowed to find a part-time job. If Clark doesn’t trust him to wait one hour around the school, he won’t trust him to be away from home several hours a day, several days a week. Not that Jason could even healthily fit this into his schedule, but well—he’d do it anyway. He _has_ to. Life sucks.

_ __ _

He helps Clark attach the bike to the carrier behind the car. He’s never done this before. The base of his right thumb is still showing red spots and Jason feels the urge to graze it against the spikes one of the many metal pieces in front of him. It’s a thought he hates to have.

_ __ _

Once in the car it’s a battle between him and his sharp tongue, a fight he loses as soon as Clark gets them outside the parking lot.

_ __ _

“I could’ve waited.”

_ __ _

Clark hums low. He doesn’t seem to have much energy in him, just enough to navigate the heavy traffic slowly. “I know. But you looked very tired during breakfast, so I figured we could both be tired at home instead of at work or school.”

_ __ _

Jason doesn’t know how truthful that is, if it’s the real reason, what Clark told Duke, or anything much. He guesses the best move is to move on. He’s not sure he can do it just yet.

_ __ _

They don’t speak a lot until they reach home, where they are greeted by Krypto in the lobby and Robin in the living room. While Clark takes care of the litter box, Jason feeds both animals and takes the opportunity to pet and hug them for a while. It calms him down to have them here. 

_ __ _

He wagers that it could make Damian hate him less tomorrow if he takes a picture of the kitten today and sends it to Timothy for them to see that Robin is doing well. But thinking once again about having to see the Waynes is bringing Jason significant anxiety, so creating bonds with them… it’s a whole other story.

_ __ _

Still, after pondering the idea for a minute, he decides to take and send the picture in the end. The last few texts he’s exchanged with Tim were trivial at best, however courteous. Maybe it’s not as bad as he imagines. Unable to come up with anything, Jason doesn’t add words to the picture.

_ __ _

He scrolls though the few messages Kyle has sent him in the last hour. They all speak of a potential meeting in person soon, which isn’t new. Jason has been ignoring this all week. He’s not told Kyle about the Waynes yet, not told him about what happened on the street, not discussed the return of his physical impulses. He really doesn’t want to hurt Kyle. He knows not answering hurts them both.

_ __ _

“Jason?” Clark calls from the kitchen where he is standing near the boiler. It sounds painful for him to speak. “Can you come closer?”

_ __ _

The teen complies, going to stand by the table. His heartbeat is tumbling fast. Are they going to _talk_? About what? He quickly hides his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “What’s up?” 

_ __ _

“It’s about this weekend.”

_ __ _

Jason takes half a step back. He can’t help it. Clark pretends not to see.

_ __ _

“We won’t be visiting the Waynes,” he sighs. “Sorry for the late notice, Bruce and I agreed on it over lunch today. Damian and Cassandra have been sick since Wednesday, Alfred is following in their direction, and with my throat in this state… It’s best we don’t exchange the sicknesses we’re all carrying right now.”

_ __ _

“Okay.”

_ __ _

Not okay. Not okay. Clark doesn’t understand: Jason has tried and _prepared_ for days, emotionally, regardless of his persistent fears. He’s worked hard on the idea and has already drafted dozens of texts intended for Kyle in case he cannot sleep. He told Harper he couldn’t help them tomorrow and now this has become a lie. He’s had nightmares about the Waynes, he’s given Tim his phone number. Both of his thumbs hurt. He can’t go through these emotions again for another week, worrying about it like this, because each day brings new problems and Jason is only one man with one heart, one brain, and too much stress. 

_ __ _

He takes his hands out his pockets and it’s a struggle not to bring them together to direct his anxiety somewhere. To raise them between him and Clark. To burn bridges. To punch.

_ __ _

But of course Clark is staring at him, and it’s clear that he knows what’s happening, so Jason can’t let himself lose control. He’s got to be cautious. Because he can’t ignore the aching of his nerves, he decides to step in front of the sink and washes his forearms under lukewarm water, using as little soap as is acceptable for this task. He doesn’t want to waste anything. 

_ __ _

Clark keeps quiet until Jason turns off the tap. Although his tone is gentle, the words make the teen shiver. “Do you have a problem with germs?”

_ __ _

For some reason, this surprises him. “Germs? No.” He really doesn’t. It’s not it. But he knows where this is going. He doesn’t like where this is going.

_ __ _

And he hates Clark for going there.

_ __ _

“Can we talk about your hands?” 

_ __ _

Jason glares at him. In any other circumstances, he’d get in trouble in a second. He hates Clark. He hates him. He can’t do anything about it now, though, so he chooses to bite his tongue and avert his eyes. He can’t do this. He starts to leave.

_ __ _

Clark catches up on him in three steps. “Jason, _hey_, no.” He puts a hand on the boy’s left shoulder, though he at least knows better than to squeeze. “Come on, it’s important.”

_ __ _

“I don’t wanna talk.” Jason turns around and, before Clark can say anything else, pushes the man away. “Let me go!”

_ __ _

Clark looks hurt and concerned, but he complies, putting his hands up as a sign of peace. Jason couldn’t care less. He doesn’t believe it.

_ __ _

He climbs the stairs as fast as possible and takes refuge in the bathroom. There’s no lock on his bedroom door and he couldn’t deal with any intrusion right now. He is growing terrified. For some reason his first realization once the lock is in place is that he’s left his school bag in the lobby downstairs, an oversight that means he might have to face Clark sooner than during dinner with Duke as witness by his side.

_ __ _

But perhaps it’s not so important a priority for now. Jason knows he was unkind. He knows there’ll be consequences. He’s fighting and fighting not to scratch and twist his hands again. He wonders if a warm shower could help him relax. (It might.) His forearms are still wet. He’s not sure why he’s not run away from this place already. He remembers what he promised Kyle he would do, and it pisses him off even more. He prays Clark will not beat him up but realistically, he doesn’t think the man would ever do that. He’s not like that—Duke was right. So why is Jason even thinking these things? Okay, maybe he knows why. And it’s not healthy. Jason is in panic and knows he can’t trust himself when he’s like this.

_ __ _

He has to calm down. It’s always the first step. It’s no use letting panic win. 

_ __ _

He sits with his legs crossed to increase his grip on gravity, stretches his arms forward, spreads out his fingers, and silently counts to ten. Twenty. Forty. He breathes, in and out, in and out, ‘til his vision gets cloudy. His lips are dry. They hurt.

_ __ _

He stays like this for some time, his back against the door and his hands now flat on the floor, palms down. He lets himself grow still. When he can finally detach one thought from another with clarity again, he gets up, strips down, and hops under the shower head.

_ __ _

  
  


_ __ _

He’s turned off his mobile phone and is letting it charge on his desk. He’s seating on his bed with his laptop resting against his thighs, keeping himself busy with homework. He’s surprised to find that the internet hasn’t been cut off. Clark must have some other punishment in mind.

_ __ _

Jason is calmer now, though he still hasn’t retrieved his bag. It’s around five thirty. Duke must already be back by now. Krypto hung out in the hallway for a while, Jason heard her, but she did not bump into his door—her usual way to ask to be let in—so he didn’t go check on her. He’ll make it up with a treat and some pats later tonight.

_ __ _

He is almost done with his current assignment when he hears steps climbing the stairs. He tenses up. He can deal with Clark at dinner because it won’t be just the two of them there, but if it’s him now… then what? What will Jason say? What apology would work? What will the weekend be like? Will Clark tell him to move away? Those might be stupid thoughts. Clark seems difficult to anger this much. Jason tries to rationalize the situation once again, but the mean voice in his head refuses to shut up. It’s talking to him constantly.

_ __ _

The steps stop in front of this door and as predicted, Duke is knocking and asking to be let in. Jason takes a moment to feel relieved, then answers: “Come in.”

_ __ _

Duke opens the door and greets him quietly. He is carrying Jason’s schoolbag and holding it out for the other boy to come and get. Jason shuts the lid of his laptop and places it on the desk before he crosses the room. He takes the bag and lets it fall gently under the empty bookshelves.

_ __ _

“Thanks.”

_ __ _

“No problem.” 

_ __ _

Jason invites Duke inside the room with a quick hand gesture, but the boy declines in the same way. 

_ __ _

“I’ll go clean up a bit and charge my phone before dinner,” he says. “Clark started to cook, but he doesn’t feel well and we don’t have anything pre-made, so we’ll be eating take out tonight. He’s ordering right now.”

_ __ _

Jason tenses up. “I could have…” he begins, but he doesn’t have the energy to finish his entire thought. There are many things Duke doesn’t need to know. “Take out is expensive.”

_ __ _

“It is, but don’t worry. Clark isn’t hurting for money. We’ll be okay.” 

_ __ _

When Jason shrugs but fails to keep a poker face, Duke takes it as his cue to finally accept the invitation and take a few steps into the room. 

_ __ _

Jason can’t say for sure yet whether he finds their good nonverbal communication irritating or not. Were his and Duke’s roles reversed, he wonders if he’d do the same for this boy—stay and listen to his problems, help when he can, support him always. He likes to think he would. He’s worried he wouldn’t. 

_ __ _

“You alright?” Duke‘s voice leaves no room for doubt about his already knowing at least part of the true answer.

_ __ _

Jason sighs. “Yeah, sure.” He nods in the direction of the door. “We fought.”

_ __ _

“He’s not angry,” is all Duke replies. And he sounds sincere too. 

_ __ _

Jason doesn’t know why he trusts him, but he does. Maybe because there’s no reason for Duke to lie. This isn’t a house of conflicts, Jason has come to realize, and this scares him somehow because conflicts are the tongue he speaks best. He’s troubled without it. 

_ __ _

“Eh, do you like laundry?” Duke asks. “I don’t. Chore swap?”

_ __ _

“What did I… oh.” Jason scowls. It was his turn to set up and later clean the table. Duke is becoming more difficult to dislike by the minute. “If I can do it tomorrow, then yes.”

_ __ _

“So long as it’s dry by Monday morning, Clark won’t care, so it’s alright. And thanks. I’ll sort and take out the trash tonight too, to make it fair.”

_ __ _

“Deal.” 

_ __ _

They fist bump in a light motion. Duke’s gaze lingers on Jason’s closed fist a moment too long, however he doesn’t comment on anything he sees there. 

_ __ _

Jason has another concern on his mind. “You heard about this weekend?” 

_ __ _

“Yeah, I did.”

_ __ _

“Are you sad?”

_ __ _

Duke raises an eyebrow. “No, not sad exactly. Our group chat is very active, so it’s not like we’re not keeping connected. You’re still invited to join, by the way.” Jason must be making a face, because his foster brother quickly grins and adds: “No pressure.”

_ __ _

“The gremlin scares me.”

_ __ _

“As if.” Duke’s laugh is mocking. Nothing mean, though. He nods before he leaves the room. “Dinner in thirty.”

_ __ _

“Aight.”

_ __ _

Jason closes the door. He stays behind it for a while, stares at his hands, finds it more difficult than before to pick out the skin around the cuts he sees there. 

_ __ _

He exhales.

_ __ _

  
  


_ __ _


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wishing you good health, everyone ♡ I’ve been spared by the plague so far but not by other demons.  
Feels really good to be back! ;-;
> 
> Thank you again to everyone who commented, subscribed, left kudos, and/or added this work to your bookmarks. My apologies for the delay in writing this chapter, I hope it will at least meet some of your expectations — please let me know in the comments! ☆ Enjoy~

  
Clark’s health worsens overnight. By lunchtime already, he can barely function. After they’re all done eating and he’s loaded and switched on the dishwasher, cleaned the table, and asked Duke and Jason to kindly do their homework, not fight and stay inside, Clark retreats to his room. He looks about to pass out.

Jason tries and pretends this doesn’t weigh on him. His shoulders are too tense to feel anything sometimes.

He leaves Duke to his studies and goes to the laundry room to fulfill his part of their chore deal. It’s still about five minutes until the clothes in the machine are clean, but that’s fine. Watching things work helps him relax. When the cycle is done and Jason collects the damp clothes, the smell of detergent starts sending his thoughts adrift.

There was struggle, there _always_ was, but perhaps some freedom as well in the three months he spent unattached, on the run, between the cold of the streets and the warmth of Kyle’s closet. The warmth of Kyle’s clothes. Kyle on his side.

Each of the eleven nights Jason had wound up in the guy’s bedroom, he’d wake up to cleaned clothes neatly tucked into his bag, a mix of old and new ones. They never talked about that. Since hosting fifteen years old runaways with criminal charges wasn’t exactly on the Rayner household’s agenda, the pair had to be sneaky and lie. It worked in their favor that Mrs Rayner’s work shifts would often be at night. Jason would help Kyle with homework and chores, take a shower, and then while he’d be catching up on much-needed rest, Kyle would stay up for hours, trying to find solutions to Jason’s problems.

Jason’s breathing is harder now. It’s probably stress. He leaves the wet clothes alone for a minute, clasps his hands, closes his eyes, and inhales deeply.

He broke Kyle’s heart. Not always, not at once. Fact is that there never was a solution to these problems, none that would involve the cops, DCFS, juvie or ruining Mrs Rayner’s already poor situation. There was no safe way out and Kyle only got sadder by the week trying to find one regardless. His concern increased. His sleep depleted. He still graduated, but barely. He still worries so much.

Jason should have cut ties. (But Jason is a coward.)

He takes care of the remaining laundry and turns off the water pipe before he sits on the floor. Just five minutes. Ten. Krypto joins him at one point, so he pets her for a while.

The afternoon is uneventful, even a little long. Clark’s coughing fits are many, hard to ignore, and regular enough that it keeps Jason on edge. He struggles with homework for unrelated reasons, though he eventually manages to wrap up his most urgent assignments.

A chill runs down his spine each time he remembers that his school credits count is unlikely to catch up with his wishes before the spring semester ends. He likes to study, it’s not the problem. He skipped the first grade but had to redo the tenth, it was a bad moment for him that turned into bad years, and now frankly, he’s overwhelmed. The growing certainty that he won’t graduate in a few months is hard on his mind and harder his body, all things tense and hurt and worried so much that vertigo is an increasingly more commonly experienced part of his life. Even the possibility of summer courses taking him where he needs to be right around the time he’ll turn eighteen doesn’t quite comfort him by now.

Fuck Kyle. Fuck promises. Jason just wants a job, some place to call home, maybe an adult life.

He gets frustrated with a physics assignment and throws in the towel around five. Robin comes clawing at his door soon after, so it seems like a good time for a break. He takes the kitten with him downstairs. They find Duke sitting at the kitchen table, busy proofreading of English homework. Jason fixes them some packaged snacks and waits, browsing on his phone in the meantime.

Duke soon closes his laptop, stretches and yawns. Jason snickers.

“Need a nap?”

Duke grins in response. He finishes his plate and plays with Krypto for a bit. Jason doesn’t feel like doing anything, so when the other boy goes to sit on the couch, turns on the TV and starts browsing a streaming app, he follows. Krypto climbs on the couch too and claims the cushion between them. Robin is wandering by the windows and jumping on the furniture.

Around six, Clark walks downstairs and offers to make tea for the three of them while he considers their dinner options. Jason takes in the man’s tired state, his slow movements, his cough and labored breathing. Clark is in a bad shape and it’s unlikely that mere days will be enough to heal that.

He puts water in the boiler, gives Krypto some attention, glances at the TV and the boys. “Homework?”

“Done.”

He smiles, puts his phone on the table and mutters a simple ‘_okay_’. Jason pretends to care about the TV again but discreetly keeps an eye on him. Dude looks about to fall asleep right here in the kitchen, leaning back against the counter with his eyes half-close and his head hanging low. His black t-shirt seems a bit snug, too dark for him too, maybe not _his_ at all. When the boiler beeps, he shivers visibly. Three minutes later, when the tea is ready, he pours it in four cups and finally walks back upstairs with two of these for himself, one in each hand, Krypto climbing after him.

Jason finds it weird that the guy so readily trusts them about the homework thing. Granted, they’re not lying. Maybe Clark can tell. Maybe he’s too sick to care. Jason gets up and takes his and Duke’s cups, brings it to the small table in front of the couch. Too hot to drink yet. They’ve lost sight of Robin.

Later, when Jason makes his way to the sink so he can get a glass of water, a short and buzzing sound startles him. Clark forgot his phone on the kitchen table. Jason isn’t sure how to proceed but before he can overthink it, he hears the buzzing again—long vibrations, repeated this time. A call. The boy takes the device and hurries up the stairs.

The door to Clark’s bedroom is half-open so he stops in front of it and takes a look inside. Clark is sitting with his legs crossed on the bed with a book on his lap. He’s drinking his tea and petting Robin. He raises his head when Jason walks in and thanks him when he sees why. The phone stops vibrating before it can change hands. As soon as Clark’s attention is on the screen, Jason exits the room, leaves the door how he found it and goes back downstairs. Robin follows him.

Duke has shut off the TV and is typing on his phone. “Who was it?” he asks.

“Uh… Lois…?”

“Lane.”

“Yeah.” Jason takes a seat at the kitchen table. “Name’s familiar.”

“She’s a journalist, you must’ve heard of her. True ace at her job. She and Clark used to work together in Metropolis before he moved here. She visits sometimes.” When Jason inadvertently groans at the idea, Duke chuckles and teases: “Dude, relax! She’s great! You’ll like her.”

“Clark sure gravitates around special people.”

Duke thinks about it for a moment. “You mean Bruce, I assume. The Waynes. You okay with next weekend?”

“Sure, I feel great. All good. Not at all going to hang out again with a billionaire.”

“He’s not a _billionaire_,” Duke states not as loud now, as if in confidence. “The Waynes used to be, but he… well. He didn’t lose it, Wayne Tech is still worth billions per se, but he doesn’t really…” He pauses. Can’t find his words. “I don’t know the full story.”

Jason is most surprised by this ending than with the info itself. Really, he finds it funny. “So you bring up this big thing only to leave me like this? Hanging? _Dude_.”

Duke represses a laugh and smiles apologetically, moving on the next second. They don’t discuss it further. Their phones are distracting enough, for one, and frankly Jason isn’t sure that he cares. It doesn’t change things much really, Bruce Wayne is still Bruce Wayne, still has more money that anyone could need, still looks and acts the way he does, still makes him feel unsafe, it’s best Jason stops thinking about it altogether because it’s driving him insane.

About half an hour passes in near silence until a food delivery woman rings the doorbell. She’s carrying two heavy bags Duke happily accepts while Jason restrains Krypto behind him in the lobby. A copy of the delivery receipt reads well wishes from Alfred. Clark comes downstairs to eat with the boys and gives them his dessert donut to split, citing his health. Afterwards, and Jason retire to their respective rooms for the night, while Duke is soon picked up by his girlfriend and her family on their way to the movies. When he returns, around midnight, Jason is still wide awake.

The three men move at different paces this Sunday. Jason, for one, wakes up feeling achy, his breathing slow, his nose runny—some symptoms of Clark’s plague. Said man is give or take in the same shape as yesterday. Duke gets up around eleven and, upon seeing how his foster father and brother are faring, takes it upon himself to cook lunch for everyone. Good rest between study sessions and ingesting some medicine thankfully help Jason feel better by the early evening, when he opts to assist Duke in preparing supper (veggie soup and burnt spinach puffs) while Clark is folding cleaned bedsheets elsewhere and regularly getting annoyed at phone calls he’s receiving about some work emergency.

When they all sit down to eat, he lightly teases the boys about burning the food, but also praises and thanks them for their diligence. He promises them their favorite dishes as soon as he’ll be healthy again. He asks Duke about his lutz and worries that Jason might have caught his nasty cold.

And it doesn’t feel alright. The calm, the friendliness. It’s not that Jason doesn’t want this, no; it’s that he doesn’t trust it and can’t let his guard down now. They still haven’t resolved the fight they had on Friday. Clark still looks at Jason’s hands with what the teen interprets as a blend of upset and disgust. It makes him want to scratch harder. Maybe he did this all day. Maybe his left forearm is red and has hairless patches from that. Maybe he plans to steal cigarettes again, very soon.

And it’s best if Clark never learns any of that. He already sounds worried enough. “If it comes back tomorrow, you shouldn’t go to school.”

“I’ll be fine. It’s very mild, I rarely get sick anyway.”

“But if you do…” A coughing fit stops him mid-sentence. Not a time for confrontation.

“Yeah, okay. _If_ I do, then I’ll tell you.”

They finish the food, sweep the kitchen, and all go their separate ways again. Minutes after Jason has closed his bedroom door, Clark knocks on it. He’s carrying fresh laundry, half of it Duke’s and the other half Jason’s, the latter which he drops in the boy’s hand. It’s already folded, although not the way Jason likes. He thanks the guy nonetheless and closes the door after a quick ‘good night’. It’s not lost on him that Clark might have hoped to talk more.

But silence is easier. Jason dumps the laundry on the bed and proceeds to fold it again. He’s streaming some funny movie review on his laptop but can’t really focus on whatever it’s saying. Always much on his mind. The tiny wounds on his hands are numerous, as usual. He’s not sure anymore where half of these come from. He thinks two of them will scar. Not that he’ll do anything about that.

He’s used to people in his life dismissing his pains and illnesses as mere attention grabs or a way to access drugs. They think of his parents and they believe he’s the same. They don’t see him as a person. His body hasn’t been his alone in a long time, couldn’t be his alone anyway anymore. Jason is used to this; he’s given up. Adults always know better, always remember better, always make the final call on things he’s not allowed to define outside the words they’ve decided to assign to his physical history, his reactions and his pain. He knows he has to block many memories because letting himself think about these things is making him want to puke, right here and now. It often does.

It wasn’t always bad, only not good nor safe. Clark’s concerns for him would be heaven-sent were it not for the fact that it’s _too late_, it’s been too long. Jason isn’t in the right place for any of this anymore. It’s likely _years_ before he could be there again, if ever he can breathe.

And he gets it, yes, he gets that Clark is doing his best and that there are real issues here, issues to address, solutions that might exist. But Jason is a passenger; he never takes ground. He’s become his own roots and made himself easy to move. There’s no room nor time yet to let this tree of his grow. He splits his clothes in two locations as usual, because some are his—the old, thrown inside his backpack—and some are not—the new, folded in the closet. This house is another rock, he’s just waiting for the next wave. There’s no one he calls family. He’s outgrown some of Kyle’s shirts.

Duke and Clark have hurdles in their communication too. On Tuesday afternoon, they’re barely home from school when Jason hears a dispute between the two other men, all the way from upstairs to the kitchen where he stands. He has no idea why things escalated so fast. He can’t make out the words but the tones paralyze him enough.

It doesn’t last long before someone loudly slams a door shut. After that, Jason still has to count under his breath to regulate his breathing for a while. He decides to avoid his room until he can assess the vibe of either or both of his housemates. They probably need time to cool down. He settles on the couch and starts reading for homework. He’s too stressed to absorb any info but it’s better than letting his thoughts shape-shift into torments.

Later, Duke’s steps are unusually loud against the stairs. He’s in a foul mood. Jason tries to imagine himself in this situation and elects not to push too many buttons at once. He’s often one for a fight and he’d probably have left the house entirely after something like that—rules be damned, cops be damned, safety be lost. He’s not great with anger. Duke seems more gracious in that aspect, although the way he grabs a glass, fills it with water and drinks it with his back still turned to the living room, is stiff enough to shows his vexation.

He stays in the kitchen a bit longer then comes sit down on the couch too. Jason doesn’t have the energy for a conversation, however he can’t leave things as they are either, for it’s starting to get to him. To distract himself he gets up, turns on the Switch and retrieves two controllers. “Wanna play?” he asks. He’s still shaking a little and would rather not dwell on why.

They pick a Mario Kart tournament and play in silence for a while. During the second race, Duke sighs and asks: “You heard us?”

“Bet I did. Couldn’t hear all the words, though.”

Duke doesn’t fill him in. Maybe there’s no need for that. When they finish their game, Jason goes to blow his stuffy nose and then visits the bathroom. On his way he can hear Clark walking down the stairs, which makes him tense, walk faster, bite on the sides of his tongue the whole few minutes he’s away, and brace for the next shouting match.

But nothing happens. Or at least, nothing loud again. When Jason is done he comes back to the other side of the floor and peeks into the living room, where he sees Clark and Duke share a small hug. They both apologize to each other and exchange further words Jason doesn’t care to listen. He’s clenching his jaw too tight. His headache is growing.

Duke calls Krypto for a walk before the clouds outside get a chance to erupt in rain. On his way to the lobby, he lightly punches Jason’s left shoulder and flashes him a small smile. It’s not as endearing as he likely envisioned that, and he’s is putting on his shoes, Clark gets closer Jason. He’s still a bit sick so keep keeps some distance. He holds his left hand clasped over his right forearm.

“I’m sorry, Jason. I shouldn’t have yelled, you must have worried.”

“I’m fine.”

Not the loudest fight. Not the worst outcome. (Jason is trembling.)

He can’t sleep again. Can never sleep really. After the apology, the evening was alright, but the fight keeps playing in his head again and again and again. The shouting. The danger. It didn’t involve him but it sure involved his nerves. It pierced him too deep, too quick, and fact is that Jason isn’t exactly the best at tending to this kind of things.

He wakes up several times, the third of which he can’t avoid having to visit the bathroom. He’s also out of tissues and his nose is runny again. His whole head is hurting. The light of the lamp is too much for his eyes. It’s barely five o’clock so he hopes not to disturb anyone, for their sake as much as his. He doesn’t know how his body would react if Clark suddenly appeared in front of him in the hallway. His anxiety is high. His limbs are weaker than usual.

He tries to make himself lighter as he hops outside his room. Only after he’s closed the bathroom door does he allow himself to cough as quietly as he can in the collar of his sleep shirt. When he’s done relieving himself and he can’t find another pack of tissues in the cupboard where there once was a small stack—Clark’s doing, he assumes—he washes both his hands and his face twice. And he cries. It’s just ripped out of him, in a second, angry tears and his shoulders shaking off the tension his muscles have stored since he heard Duke and Clark shouting match.

It doesn’t last. He doesn’t feel better. He’s angry enough as he tries to muffle his sniffles that he’s hurting his hands and jaw from the pressure and the trembling. His skin, his bones, his breathing… his face hurts. He bites on his lower lip several times, sharp little jabs, scraping the skin above until he tastes blood again. He fails to close the doors silently behind him on his way back to bed. The air is colder now.

When he gets to the breakfast table around seven, already dressed up and with his backpack hanging from his shoulder, he finds only Clark there. Duke went downstairs as well a bit earlier, of that Jason is certain, so he reasons that the guy is likely in the bathroom or walking Krypto around the block. Whatever it is, he hopes Duke hasn’t left yet. Dealing with Clark alone is not on Jason’s preferred agenda.

He greets the man and receives a smile in return. There are three ten dollar bills on the table and Clark gestures toward it, encouraging Jason to take it.

“Pocket money. Sorry it’s days late.”

The boy takes note of the blue business suit, the empty coffee mug, the fact that Clark shaved. He lets his backpack slide by the chair, puts his phone on the table, pockets the money and walks to the counter to get some cereals. “Thanks.”

“Don’t buy cigarettes, okay? And don’t use it on clothes, I can get that for you.”

Jason hums in response. It’s better to keep quiet. He sits opposite of Clark as is his table habit now, and starts to eat without a word. His mouth is numb. Cassandra sent him a song around six, which he saves in a playlist before he sends back a recommendation of his own. Damian once again texted him thanks for a picture of Robin. Duke just now shared some news article in a random group chat Jason finds himself in, and the person who answers first appears to be Stephanie. The boy doesn’t know who any of the other four are. He chooses not to interact, though he’ll probably read the article later. He leaves Kyle and Tim on read.

Duke still hasn’t come back yet, though Jason hears Krypto run near the laundry room. He mindlessly picks on the thin skin above the bite on his lower lip, the same spot where it bled last night—and many other nights before, weeks ago, months ago, years ago. Another bad habit. He continues eating his cereals to distract himself for a minute. When he’s almost done with it and right as something drops somewhere on the other side of the ground floor, Clark clears his throat to get his attention.

“Duke has ice time tonight so it will only be us two here for dinner. He won’t be back before nine. Something special you want to eat?”

“Anything’s fine.”

Jason keeps his tone in check but his vocal chords are shaky. Uneasiness travels from his throat to his stomach. He was not expecting Duke to be gone all evening tonight, for the three times he’d left home for the rink so far, it had only been for a couple of hours. Manageable. Jason doesn’t know how things will play out with Clark if he’s alone with the guy for this long. How many questions he’ll have to dodge.

Again he can’t help but touch his lower lip. The wound hasn’t reopened yet, but the gesture gets Clark’s attention. It’s hard to tell whether he’s staring at the barely healed cut here exactly or at the bruises on Jason’s hands. It’s all the same either way. It sucks.

“Does it hurt?”

“No.”

Half a lie, a full escape. Jason is scratching his left index too hard under the table. One of his nails is too sharp, his anger is rising, his focus is too thin.

And Clark doesn’t let up. He sounds more and more serious, in fact. “Did you have a bad night?”

“_No_.”

Jason’s movements are slowly escaping his control. Lying fills him with guilt. Guilt fills him with anger. Anger tends to reach the surface, to make him react, make him lose his worth. His legs are shaking now and his fists ready to fly, the buzzing behind his skull louder and louder as seconds tick.

Clark is studying him with care. There’s no question that he can feel how much pressure is building, and when Jason realizes this he takes a deep, deep breath. He has to manage this. Himself. Clark. Everything. It’s on him, it’s always on him.

“Look,” he mutters, “this—me being here—it’s only ‘til August, and then I’m gone. That’s all. I appreciate what you’re doing for me, I really do, but I’m not…” He pauses. Too many ways to finish this. Clark is still staring at him and listening closely, _so_ closely, Jason can tell as much. “It’s none of your business.”

“You’re a hundred percent my business.”

“Fuck’s sake…”

“_Jason_—”

“Let it _go_!”

He slams a hand on the table, gets up and pushes his chair back in the process. His head is spinning. He’s hurting himself by biting on the inside of his cheeks again. He’s too angry to be scared. Clark doesn’t break eye contact.

Steps are heading in their direction quickly, cutting the confrontation short. Duke is nothing but annoyed.

“Geez, so early…”

He sits next to Clark. He looks about done, ready for school already, his expression sour. He starts talking about snacks and blade sharpening and skate guards, and could someone please come pick him up by car on Monday because otherwise it won’t work out, also can he go with Damian to the arcade tomorrow? Some forms need filling out. Krypto is running out of treats.

Jason goes and stands by the sink, his back turned to the table. He finishes the last seven pieces of his cereals and washes the bowl clean immediately afterward. He then reaches inside the dishwasher, grabs a plate from it and cleans it as well. When it’s done, he does it again; takes something from there, cleans it, dries it. Repeat. Repeat.

He hears Duke and Clark agreeing on a pick up time on Monday evening but tries to shut down their voices in his ear as soon as Bruce Wayne is mentioned. The digital clock on the microwave indicates 7:04. The anger level in Jason’s chest is going down, unlike his rising stress. It’s good enough a trade for now.

Duke gets up and comes to stand by Jason, whose upper right arm he gently pokes before he speaks. “Hey. You ready to go?”

“Yeah, mostly, lemme just brush my teeth…”

“Duke, don’t forget the notice of leave for next week. I signed it.”

Jason doesn’t mind Clark ignoring him for now. He turns off the faucet and rushes upstairs to finish getting ready. He doesn’t want to make Duke wait.

He brushes his teeth for the second time in half an hour, fast and precise, eyes on the mirror while his thoughts wander elsewhere. He went too far. He will be punished. His grip on his phone is tight, the muzzle on his pain tighter.

By the time he’s back downstairs, Duke is waiting for him outside. He’s left the entrance door ajar and Jason, while putting on his basket shoes, can hear him talking to Krypto and calling out Robin’s name a few times. When he’s done tying his shoelaces he looks around, but can’t find his schoolbag. He’s left it at the table. He curses under his breath and hears Clark sigh: “_language_.”

Jason stands up straight and turns to him. Clark’s got his backpack. It’s hard to say what he’s thinking, what his expression means, or what will happen tonight. For now, when presented with it, Jason takes the bag and thanks him. No need to make it all worse.

At that moment Krypto runs back inside, followed by Robin. Jason hears Duke calls for him twice.

“Go,” Clark tells him. That’s all.

Jason and Duke ride to school in silence. They’ll arrive early since they left early, which Jason suspects is Duke’s way to mitigate the toxic vibes they’ve left at home. He feels bad about this. Bad and irritated. Duke deserves calm mornings and Jason doesn’t need anyone to fight his battles, he’s fine, he can do this.

Still, he shouldn’t have snapped. It turned the house into a battlefield again, and the consequences waiting for him later might be beyond what he’s already imagining. Clark would have all the reasons to give up on him. What would Jason do if thrown out? Run away, probably. He always wants to run away. Wants to yell at someone. Beat up someone. Doesn’t matter the person.

The boys park their bikes on the rack closest to the school gates. A fifteen minutes difference shows in the free spaces there. Since it’s near only them here at that very moment, Duke finally speaks after he’s looked around to make sure no one will eavesdrop.

“Okay, spill. What happened with Clark?”

Jason grits his teeth. His jaw hurts. “Mind your own.” He locks the security on his bike, sensing Duke’s stare on his shoulder the entire time. His anger hasn’t yet entirely died down. “Dude… I don’t wanna fight.”

“Eh, we all live in this house. If you and Clark are at odds, it’s not just you two walking on eggshells and feeling the tension.”

“The fucking _nerve_,” Jason breathes out. He’s seeing red. “And where exactly do you think I was yesterday, Duke? Tell me. Or would you rather _shout_ it?”

He hit a nerve. He’s not sure what kind, but regardless, he did. Duke is hurt. That makes both of them and it sucks, it wasn’t supposed to happen yet it’s happening all the same.

Other students arrive, interrupting the fight. Jason uses this as an opportunity to walk away. He can’t tell how he feels but he hates it enough to wonders if he’s not finally fallen sick. He’s been sniffling for days, nauseated too—but is that it? Or is it stress? He can’t trust his body. Can’t trust his mind. He’s so damn useless he doesn’t even know himself. He makes his way to the bathroom where he washes his hands twice and considers his options for the day.

To leave. To stay. To leave. To call Kyle. He stays.

He regrets it. He can’t concentrate on anything, he’s falling behind in his notes and forgot some graded homework due all too soon. By lunchtime his headache and panic are hard to ignore.

Harper notices too. “Something wrong?”

“No.”

“You don’t lie well.”

The two of them are walking toward the cafeteria when this happens, and Jason feels the effects of that reply immediately. He quickly brings his hand above his mouth. Nausea. Too heavy. There’s a bathroom half a hallway away and he hurries there, initially to wash his face and hands and get it together but ultimately, he loses this battle. He rushes into a stall right before he spits out bile.

Not his favorite day this week so far.

He cleans himself up while a few students come and go. Soon, he receives a text from Harper, who tells him they’re with Stephanie and wondering whether Jason should go to the nurse. He avoids the question and texts back asking where they are—near the cafeteria—before he takes off and joins them. When he meets them, Duke is here too.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“Nothing. All better now.”

It’s not that Duke believes him, that much is clear; but he lets it go. Neither of them brings up the fight they had. Perhaps they’ll deal with it later, perhaps they’ll pretend nothing happened. For now, the four eat lunch together. Duke even sneaks lollipops to each of them for dessert. When Harper and Stephanie mention a for drive next Thursday, Jason offers to help. He still feels bad about the weekend past.

“Glad I’m done with the day,” Harper sighs. “I’ll stay here to study though, I’ve got a paper due tomorrow but I work all evening today.”

“Where?” Jason asks.

“The post office three blocks away. I’ve got an hourly contract with them so they call me when they need me. I prep stuff for late night shipping, handle customers, things like that. My shift starts in three hours.”

“May you sleep enough before morning,” Stephanie mumbles before she yawns. “Me, I’ve got three periods left, then rugby club until six.”

“Two more for me then nothing, but I have ice time tonight. Jason?”

“Three, and you don’t have to wait for me, it’s fine. I know the way.”

“Okay.”

They split soon after that. Jason doesn’t feel much better once left with other students he doesn’t know well. He spends all of Health class wondering if he should actually have asked first for Clark’s permission to go home alone. They never discussed that because there never was an assumption that Duke would always wait around, or at least on Jason’s part there was none. He thought it would be alright. Besides, if Duke sees no problem in leaving earlier without Jason, then it’s unlikely there’d be a scolding waiting for him because if it at home. Maybe it‘s not worth bothering Clark again.

Jason would rather not have to speak with him more than necessary today.

He checks his phone again after last period is over and finds that only Cassandra has sent him something. It’s a group selfie of teenagers in dance gear, with her on the left holding the phone, the text box over the picture reading ‘_Spring recital in two weeks!_’

Jason feels uneasy, though it’s not because of her. He thinks good things of Cassandra, he has not reason to dislike her. She saved him that one time. She complimented his shirt. They exchange music. She told him she likes girls. He’d go and support her for the recital if she asked him too, he still owes her for that punch, but to be there with her siblings and father...

He doesn’t text back. He rides home quickly, not stopping anywhere despite his cravings for burgers and cigarettes. He’ll push his luck another day. He doesn’t know if Clark is home yet but on the off-chance he is, now is not a good time to add any fuel to the fire they’ve started in their shared living space. But Jason only sees Duke’s bike in the driveway when he arrives. He breathes a sigh of relief that turns right back into a heavy weight on his shoulders; the fallout is only _postponed_. No way to avoid it once Duke is gone.

Jason enters the house and finds Duke in the lobby, crouched right behind the door, busy checking the content of his sports bag one last time. They exchange trivial words before Duke has to leave to catch his bus a few streets down. Jason bids him goodbye and stays downstairs for a little while to pet Krypto plenty enough, look for Robin, (they find him under the couch) eat an apple and, finally, refill the dog’s water bowls.

Even though he’s alone here he barricades himself into his room to study. He is late on everything and he wants no one to know that. He still has a lot of courses for a senior and as if that wasn’t bad enough, he’s failing his one lower level class so far. He hopes that he can correct course during finals. His struggles this morning also mean that he needs to make sense of messy or absent notes now before he can move on, and that’s on top of the homework he has. He knows he could ask Harper for their own notes or for help but he doesn’t exactly wants them to see him as a burden.

He can’t figure out how to calculate something and when he tries his luck looking for help on the internet, it confuses him even more. He’s not breathing well again—panic, anticipation, will to escape. His room is small all of a sudden. He switches to trying to brainstorm on physical paper but even this doesn’t help. He crumples the sheet. The room is _very_ small. He hears Clark enter the home.

He gets to the window and opens it slightly. He needs air. He needs to calm down. He inhales deeply and rotates his head to relax his neck, which cracks. He opens his hands wide and presses them against the windowsill. Not working. His hands are cold. He turns around.

He hears steps up the stair and knows just what’s coming. He invites Clark in as soon as the first knock hits his door. Clark is visibly surprised to find him with his back against the wall near the window instead of on his bed or sitting behind the desk.

Jason shrugs. “Hi.”

“Hey kid. How was your day?”

“T’was okay.”

“Great.”

Clark steps further into the room and takes a look around. He seems back to his usual self, relaxed and positive. Jason remains alert. He can tell when Clark sees the messed up homework and the open tabs on his laptop. He doesn’t know why, but it makes him want to cry. Those would be angry tears. (Again.)

“Trouble with homework?” Clark asks.

“Yeah.”

“If I can help—”

“It’s fine.”

That came out curt. _Trouble_. Clark gets closer to the desk and tilts his head so he can read Jason’s notes, the Physics book, what’s on the laptop.

“Duke and I suffered through this last year, it’s okay, I can—”

“It’s _fine_,” Jason repeats, more forcefully this time. He’s tired. He’s got this. He wants to lay down. Clark’s got to leave. “I’ll figure it out.”

The man takes a deep breath and it’s never good when adults do that. It’s often meant hurt. Yelling. Dismissal. But this time all it appears to mean is Clark thinking in silence for a moment, then dragging the chair back to create extra space between it and the bed, sitting on the chair, and gesturing at Jason to come sit on the bed so they can talk. Because Jason feels unsafe, he follows this order. He has nothing much to say.

“About this morning…” Clark begins. His voice is quiet. “I understand it’s difficult for you to deal with adults, and I get that you weren’t so fine after Duke and I fought. To yell was a big mistake on my part, I know it affected you too. I heard you get up last night.” Jason stands still. Clark let out a sigh. “But even then, even now kid, you can’t yell at me.”

“If it’s an apology you want, I’ll give you one.”

“What I want is for you to be _healthy_ or to tell me when you’re not, so I can help you get there. Can you understand how seeing you collect bruise after bruise is concerning? That it worries me?”

Jason hates him right now. It’s this feeling again, the overwhelming one, the kind that won against him in the bathroom last night, the same tears blurring his vision. Anger. Anger. The yearning to let the walls down against the memories of what it’s caused before, the scars Jason has, the sleep he can’t find.

This time it can’t stay private and given Clark’s expression, it shows. Whatever. Jason averts his eyes. The man in front of him groans and sighs. “Jason… listen. Listen to me. For the time being, you’re my responsibility. Maybe to you it means shelter and food alone, but I don’t see it that way. I didn’t offer you to come here only so you’d have somewhere to sleep. It’s more than this. I can do more.”

“I don’t need you to.”

“You don’t have to need—“

“I don’t _want_ you to.”

It’s frustrating. For them both, evidently, it’s frustrating. Jason can’t stand himself most days and that’s another one of these.

Clark considers his answer for a bit before he asks: “Then what do you want?”

If Jason doesn’t give him anything, this conversation won’t end. But it has to. Truthfully even, the boy can’t pretended there’s not at least _one_ thing he wants in that instant, though he feels silly to ask. Lesser of two wrongs. He glances and points in the direction of the desk. “For now, can you help with this? Please?”

Clark looks at him the same way he did back at the police station. The same eyes, the same frown that betrays how much he’s thinking about this, if it’s a good idea, if it’s chaos in the making, if Jason is worth it—worth anything at all. In the end, he takes the course book, opens it and points at a number on the page.

“You start here.”

It takes some time to get through the explanation and the homework itself but by the end of it, Jason groans in genuine relief. His body is tired now that there is less stress to keep up with. Clark left midway to work on some project and cook dinner, though he is running late tonight. Jason is starving. He is called downstairs around eight and he cannot get to the kitchen fast enough. Burgers are waiting on the table, two put aside for Duke later, fries in a large bowl on the counter.

They don’t talk much. Clark is in a playful fight with Robin who as always is trying to steal food from the table. Krypto knows better and only waits for it at their feet. Jason’s mind wanders. Kyle’s birthday is in two days and it will be the first time in six years that they won’t meet up to celebrate it. 

“What’s on your mind?” Clark asks.

“A friend.” He replied without thinking. He doesn’t want to elaborate. Perhaps he can tease Clark and get him not to ask anything else. “Also cigarettes.”

“I’ll allow your friend to sleep over for a week if you don’t smoke for a year.”

Jason snickers. “No deal.”

“Jay…” Clark winces. Jason lets the nickname slide. “You can’t smoke, you’re a _child_!”

“Best time to commit crimes.”

They banter for a while until their plates are empty. Clark clarifies that Jason really can invite a friend over sometimes or see them somewhere else for a couple hours with loose supervision, it makes the boy happy. Kyle is busy most days with school for now but perhaps they could meet once his midterms are over. Clark’s stare on him gets Jason out of his thoughts, and he finds that the cause of this attention is his absentminded picking at a cut on the first phalange of his left ring finger. It’s reopened a little, not enough to bleed, only to look red. It’s shameful. He stops there.

They clear up the table. Clark disappears elsewhere afterward for a little while. Jason prepares and pours Assam Grey tea in two cups for them, first time he’s trying this. He’s allowed to take it upstairs so that’s what he plans to do, except Clark comes back before the teen can exit the kitchen. There’s a first aid kit in his hands and he asks Jason to take a seat. Instead, he recoils.

“I don’t need this.”

“Sit. Please? I won’t touch, only clean up. Deal?”

He won’t let it go. Jason knows he won’t. He is starting to think dating Bruce Wayne will do that to a person. He doesn’t really know Bruce Wayne but he gets that vibe from the guy, he remembers Duke calling his demeanor _intense_, can still feel on his skin the pressure of the air in the rare times he was in the man’s presence. And Clark is up against this by choice. He is unyielding. Jason must compromise to win.

“I can do it.”

“If you want, yes, as long as you patch them all.”

He gestures to the chair again. There’s no dodging this either. Jason complies, takes the kit, looks for disinfectant and band-aids. He stopped using the latter most of the time because contrary to Clark’s hopes, he will keep up with his bad habits, just take off the band-aid because he’s an idiot or create chaos elsewhere on his body because he can’t help it. Doesn’t find the strength to help it. He tells his brain to stop and his brain laughs at itself. Same routine every day.

“Would you go see the school counselor for me?” Clark asks him. Jason doesn’t answer, only glares. He won’t. He doesn’t have time, no energy either, he might do something like this one day but that day is not in sight. His priorities are elsewhere and they’re not it. Not him. Clark smiles sadly when he meets Jason’s eyes. “I wonder who you’d be willing to talk to about this.”

“Myself is fine.”

“Ah, well…” Clark chuckles. There are shadows to it. “No offense to that young man, but I think he needs help too right now.”

Jason refrains from commenting. Instead, he sprays the eighth and final round of disinfectant over a superficial scratch on the side of his right wrist—Robin’s doing this time. It’s been here for a week. Jason has made it worse by picking on it since it got here, so it stayed.

Clark is thinking hard. His face says as much. “We’ll figure it out,” he says, though Jason is not sure what exactly he is talking about. “Not sure about your lip…”

“It will heal on its own.” He closes the kit and hands it back to Clark. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” A pause. “You’re calmer.”

Krypto is whining in the lobby. It’s nearing the time for her evening walk, she might want it earlier today maybe. Jason gets up and takes his tea, ready to take his leave, but Clark stops him again. He is grinning this time. “Want to take Krypto out fir a walk to the dog park and back?”

Jason raises an eyebrows. Puts the tea cup down, “Not scared I’ll run away?”

“Why, you wouldn’t separate a farm boy and his dog, would you now?”

Jason goes and puts on his shoes. Krypto is happy to see this and even brings her own leash to him. He’s never walked her alone before. He doesn’t have his keys with him but he’ll just have to ring the bell. He steps outside.

To his surprise, Duke is standing by the gate and likely the real reason Krypto was impatient to get out. They expected him back later. He’s typing on his phone, his rink bag at his feet, raising his head when he hears Krypto bark. Jason lets the leash go so she can run to him. He follows. He thinks the guy looks a bit sad and maybe he cares about that. 

“You ok, man?”

“Yeah, just needed… space.”

He needs not say more. Jason gets it. “We made up. Me and Clark.”

Duke sighs. “Good.” He helps retrieve the end of Krypto’s leash and gives it back to Jason. He groans and closes his eyes when the dog bumps into his left knee, a painful sound that doesn’t scream _fine_. “I was shit on ice today, my jumps were awful, I couldn’t go on.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“You ever tried? We should go some time.”

“Sure, why not? Guess I’m years due for a broken bone.”

“It’s not _that_ dangerous.”

“Allow me to doubt.”

Duke smirks. By the quick looks he give to his phone, Krypto and the house, the way he shifts on his feet, he’s got something on his mind. Something private.

Jason is in no position to pry. If not for Duke at least then there’s the fact that he has ran out of space for somebody else’s emotions right now. Not much to do against that. “You coming with?” he asks. “To the park and back, or we can run away. Whichever you like.”

Duke lets out a snort. “Alright.”

They don’t run away. Duke is not the type.

Jason has another bad night full of headaches and intrusive thoughts, his body restless and his mind longing for something—could be someone—could be _rest_. His nerves are unkind. It’s stress, it’s all stress. But he thinks he’ll manage.

* * *

Wayne Manor is barely in sight when Jason’s entire system starts sending him strong signals not to try and perform too close to family in this space. The teen listens to this alright. Friday was a boring day and it’s Saturday now, Kyle’s birthday, lunch and dinner with the Waynes, hopefully some sleep, breakfast, maybe they could leave in the morning but if they don’t, it’s fine. Jason is prepared, he thinks. Worse case scenario, he can stay glued to Krypto, the two other dogs, or even the cats.

Damian is the first after Alfred to greet Clark and come closer, almost immediately asking: “Where’s Robin?”

Clark hugs the child tight. “In Jason’s arms. He’s quite fond of him.”

“Why?” Damian mutters. It’s cute in its own right.

Jason shields Robin closer and tilts his head to look straight into this child’s eyes, all grin and no care to give. “Because I’m not a gremlin, for one.”

“_Boys_,” Clark chides.

Duke laughs. So does Tim.

“Hey there, Jason. Good to see you again.”

“Likewise.” He gives Robin to Damian, whose murderous stare softens the very second his hands make contact with the cat. “Here’s your baby, child.”

“Thank you.”

Well, he didn’t expect that. Alright. Now what? He’s out of place. He feels trapped. Things around him are moving and he’s missing the change in motions. Duke and Tim are discussing college options behind him, soon walking away together in the direction of what Jason remembers to be a dining room of sorts. It seems they won’t be eating lunch in the kitchen. Damian leaves in the opposite direction Duke and Tim did, muttering something to the cat the whole time. Alfred asks him to be quick and join them to the table when Robin is settled.

“His cats tend to stay in the patio when it rains,” Clark tells Jason. “Robin might make friends today.”

“Or enemies.”

“Now, Master Jason,” Alfred scoffs. “No enemies in this house. Or, well…” He sighs. “There’s this owl.”

“That owl again?”

“Kept me up all night. Master Bruce is insensitive to my plight and refuses to let me capture it or take it down.”

“I’m afraid I’ve got to side with him here, Alfred. Hurts me as much as it hurts you.”

“I heard that.”

Jason shivers. Bruce Wayne’s voice has an odd rumble to it always; it’s like a storm about to come. He is walking down the stairs and reading something on his phone, his expression neutral as usual. It doesn’t change much when he faces Jason and greets him politely, however his sudden and soft grin, the moment he looks at Clark, speaks a whole other lexicon.

“Welcome back,” he says. This time, he sounds relieved.

Clark’s smile is true an wide.

The dining room has been set up buffet style with plenty of space to navigate, small tables to occupy, couches and chairs on which to sit. Jason picked an armchair in front of a low table, facing a couch and a wall, and was soon joined by Alfred on the chair on his left and, much to his surprise, Damian on the couch in front of the old man. Twice the latter must be told not to sit with his feet on the cushion. Alfred suggests he just be careful and keep his plate above the couch to eat. Jason finds it endearing.

“And where’s Richard?” he asks.

“In Star City until Monday, celebrating his birthday with college friends. His real twentieth is on Tuesday. He will also be out of town for a competition next weekend so we will have a special dinner later, soon as we can all convene.”

Damian grumbles. “He doesn’t live here anymore.”

_Ah_. There it is. This, Jason gets. Frustration, bitterness, longing — he can spot them. He almost feels for that kid. Alfred, too, seems sympathetic.

“What can I say, Master Damian, your brother is an adult. They leave the house eventually.”

“Then good thing Tim is soon eighteen.”

“You will miss Tim,” Cassandra tells him. She is carrying a pitcher of lemonade that Jason helps her with while she arranges her plate and utensils on the table. Bruce comes to hand them four glass and reminds Damian not to let the cats back inside later without toweling their paws first. He tells Cassandra that Ilya called, she can go there on Monday. He then asks Jason if everything is okay.

“Never better,” he answers. The blue of Bruce’s eyes looks just like steel in this light.

“Glad to hear.”

He walks back toward the main table, leaving the group to themselves. Jason pours each of them a glass. Cassandra thanks him as she moves toward the middle of the couch, right by her brother to whom she signs something quick. Damian glowers at first, but fails to repress a grin.

Jason doesn’t know if it’s worth trying to develop good speaking terms with this child. Texting about Robin is their only common ground so far. That and _anger_. It’s not enough positives, really. They’re far apart in age and farther apart in lifestyle. Jason doesn’t even think he is ever going to have any further contact with the Waynes after the summer anyway, though he’s starting to accept that cutting ties with Duke might not be so easy anymore now that their social lives have found threads that overlap. Besides, maybe he likes Duke—for now. It’s hard to tell. If things go wrong Jason can always rely on the fact that he’s always been good at ghosting people and disappearing in the past. He’s avoided a lot of troubles and some of the dangers and a bit of heartaches, and he’s done so alone. Worse comes to worst, he’ll find a way. He always does.

A clock somewhere strikes two right as Duke and Tim guide Jason up the stairs to the second floor and into the library. It’s not so luminous today because of the weather, but it’s a beautiful room, very spacious. One of Damian’s kittens is sleeping on a cushion near the heater. The teens pick one of the two round tables and settle here to do their respective homework, of which they all have a fair load.

The so-called family is separated right now. Cassandra is on a group call in her room with her dance mates to discuss the upcoming recital. Damian left with his father and Clark to attend some art lesson in town. Jason figures the two men will use this time for a proper date, for as far as he knows, they haven’t seen each other in weeks. After lunch Alfred promised to text them all when the scheduled afternoon collation will be ready to serve and eat, with he estimated around four. It’s unclear yet who will really be here then.

Jason tells himself to _chill_. From time to time he hears Duke and Tim discuss a mystery, something he gathers Duke is writing but the plot comes for Tim. Krypto and the other dogs come and visit them at two thirty, and the one named Ace stays.

“That’s Bruce’s dog,” Duke states. “He’ll be thirteen this year.”

Jason can’t hide his surprise. He turns to Ace and scratches him behind the ears. “So you’re a grandpa, uh…”

Tim half-chuckles, half-winces. “Don’t remind Bruce.”

That sounds strange. To Jason’s ears anyway, it’s strange. He would have thought Tim would be calling the guy ‘_dad_’. Not that it matters to him.

He finishes the most urgent tasks but as usual finds himself stuck on the bigger projects, the lessons to remember, the formulas and the stories and the dates and the things he’s _missing_. He knows he should reach out for help, talk to his tutor more, tell Clark perhaps… no, not Clark. He helped him once this week already and Jason has felt like shit ever since. The initial relief of a work done and a lesson learned has slowly become a shame that locks his chest too tight in the middle of the night, that made him take off the second wave of band-aids around his hands before he even fully realized that he had done so and why, the whole thing—the bad kind.

He meets Tim’s eyes, piercing as ever, the boy’s frown deep and knowing. “You alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Jason closes his laptop and his books, returns his pens in the pencil case. “All done. Now what?”

“Well,” Duke starts. “If you have time, I could use more feedback on my new story for the school paper.”

“Sure, I can do that.”

“Great! Thanks.” He gets up and lifts his laptop in the process. “I need a break, I’ll be right back.”

He drops the machine in Jason’s hands before he gets out. The teen immediately starts reading the open document. He admires how good a writer Duke is, something he first learn from Stephanie and later heard be praised by Clark. This short story proves no different. It’s a mystery without a twist yet every sentence is interesting. Jason can only find two typos and there’s one part a bit unclear. Duke comes back soon and he points these out to him. He doesn’t know how to craft a proper praise so he leaves it at that.

Cassandra drops by to study around three. Alfred calls them all downstairs at four twenty-five. Damian is back and so are Bruce and Clark. When Jason sees the two men near the window in the room where they’ve all gathered, they’re not looking at him or anybody else, only talking quietly with each other. They’re standing so close, their shoulders touch. Soon, Clark takes Bruce’s hand. It must feel warm. Jason shuts out again.

His agitation grows the more nighttime draws close. He knows he doesn’t hide it well because Clark and Alfred come sit with him during dinner, this time taken in another room on a long dining table, and don’t even try to engage with him much for most of the affair. Cassandra and Duke ask him whether he is coming to see their upcoming, respective competitions, and the boy answers yes because he figures Clark will go which means Jason will _have_ to go. It’s not like he’s free of movement, or even free to have active interests. But that part, he keeps quiet. A ‘_yes_’ is all he says.

Bruce Wayne often looks at him and thinks. That’s only it—_thinks_. Jason hates not knowing what about. One time the man smiles at him, his expression soft and calm, as if inviting. They’re too far apart to converse. Jason prefers it this way.

“You can call it a night anytime,” Clark tells him after most of the dishes are gone and only Alfred, Damian, Cassandra and them two are still at the table. The siblings are sitting together at one end, watching a muted video on Cassandra’s tablet. Alfred on Jason’s right is reading a British newspaper off his phone. Clark is waiting for the tea to cool down so he doesn’t burn his tongue on it _again_. Duke, Bruce and Tim went somewhere else to test… who knows what they want to test. Jason vaguely heard them talk about modus operandi and characters and a cow, so his best guess is that they are trying to solve a crime. The dining room is quiet now.

Jason considers Clark’s offer. It’s bothering him. He stops pinching and picking at an already rough patch of skin at the base of his thumb when he notices that the man is watching. Maybe Alfred saw this too. Clark doesn’t even look angry, but his shoulders drop in what’s likely relief as soon as Jason stops, as though tension finally leaves him. To have been the cause of it before… it’s frustrating. Humiliating.

Jason pretends it’s not happening. “You sure it’s okay?’

“Yes, it’s alright. Apart from Alfred and I, the others are soon going to look at the stars for a bit and then pick a movie. You’re invited to join them of course, on my end I have too much work to catch up on, and Alfred will be elsewhere doing whatever secret thing he does.”

“Catching the owl.”

“Disappointing his son.”

Alfred snickers while Clark fakes an eyeroll and laughs. Jason pretends not to get who the _son _is in this case; another thing for another time.

“Anyway, Jason, feel free to tag along, we’d love to have you with. But you can also be on your own if you’re beat. We understand.”

“Where will I sleep? A couch would do.”

“This house has _bedrooms_.”

“Less and less so, these days,” Alfred muses. “But I quite enjoy the mess.”

“You do?”

“Where then?” Jason sighs. He’s nervous. Doesn’t know why. He praises his lucky star that neither man seems phased or too displeased with his poor tone right now. Alfred might simply be a saint.

“Well, I thought it would be lonely in the guest rooms downstairs, so I put you up in in the same wing where everyone else but me sleeps. It’s on the third floor, above the library, you must have seen a small staircase there. Your room is at end of the hallway, next to Richard’s, so very quiet. I’ve left clean toiletries and a new toothbrush for you in the bathroom as well. Give me a moment and I will escort you there.”

“Thanks, Alfred. Is there a specific time for breakfast?”

“No, come down whenever. Appreciated if before ten.”

He wonders if the rules in both households are similar by design, by accident, or by _habit_. He’s been suspecting for a while that Clark and Bruce _did_ live together at one point, which explains the bad reaction the former and Duke had when Jason asked about it the first night he spent with them. But as it is, he isn’t sure it’s what happened. He might be way off base. Regardless of what the truth is, it wears the shape and caution of forbidden lines one must not cross. Jason can respect this.

He stops thinking for a second when he feels Alfred’s hand on his shoulder, a brief but firm squeeze. It startles him alright, maybe he is truly tired — more than he thought, more than yesterday. His jaw hurts, his fingers hurt, the vertigo returned.

It’s all stress. He can get through that.

Alfred gets up and Jason starts following him after exchanging good night wishes with everyone. (Damian doesn’t answer.) He realizes he might not have the chance to say it to Duke, Tim or Bruce Wayne, unless they stumble upon the group on the way there. There’s always future Saturdays.

Jason reminds the butler that his backpack is still on a sofa in the lobby, which is apparently not a problem since they have to go back there first to reach the room anyway. This house is a maze. Jason hangs the backpack on his shoulders and expects to have to climb a fair share of stairs before he can rest, however Alfred has other plans.

“Spare my bones,” he grins. “Let’s take the lift this time.”

He points at a narrow space near the stairs that Jason had sort of noticed before, but mistaken for a closet of some kind. The mechanism is newer that the rest of the manor, though its wooden exteriors don’t clash too much with it all. They let it take them to the third floor. Alfred pushes Jason toward the left when they’re there, straight toward a long hallway where the lights have been left on. Duke emerges from one of the rooms right at this moment, in the middle of the hallway, Ace and Krypto in toe and a light coat in his arms. The dogs instantly rush to Alfred and Jason to demand pats and attention. They also quickly make their way between the open doors to the lift. Alfred sighs.

“They equally enjoy and fear being in there. We might never know why. There’s no getting them out unless we operate it now.”

Jason smirks wide. “Then let’s not deny them a ride. Don’t worry about me, Duke is here, I’ll manage.”

“Well, if you’re certain…”

Alfred leaves with the dogs, not without smiling kindly at the boy once more. Another soft soul, that one. There’s several texts from Kyle that have been waiting for answers for _hours_. Jason should get to that.

The hallway is not exactly what he imagined. It is more cross-shaped really, with an intersection that leads to two smaller hallways, one on the left one on the right. The main one has but four doors once passed the intersection. The branches both have two doors, one on each side, and at the end of the one on his left, Jason can see the high point of the staircase he saw back in the library. Interesting access.

Duke waits until he walks closer to ask: “Looking for your room?”

“Indeed. End of the hallway?”

“Yes, _this_ hallway, second door on the left.” He points to it, then at the door nearest to them. “And that room here is mine, so if you need anything…”

“I’m good.” The air between them is weird again. A fight could happen, they’ve never really discussed the previous one, it’s still around. Jason doesn’t want things to go awry. “Bathroom?”

“The door opposite yours.”

“Thanks.”

“If you change your mind and wanna go stargazing with us, message me. I’ll come collect you in the kitchen. We won’t be out there too long, we’re watching a movie afterward and Damian still has a bedtime.”

“Guess so do I today.” The hints Duke drops suffocate him. It’s a poison. The guy means well, of course he does… but what if he’s enjoying this? Watching Jason’s hurt grow? Such an ugly thought to have. Duke really isn’t the type. Another shame Jason blames on — on what? Fatigue? The system? Himself? It’s all him. Always him. It’s all-consuming. “Enjoy the stars.”

“Eh, you okay?”

_Don’t do this. Not now, not here._

Jason half-laughs in anger, “Not again…”

“Jay—“

“Don’t.”

The air is weird. Weird and sour. They’re facing off again and though it’s less intense this time, it doesn’t mean it’s better because it’s a _pattern_. Jason wants to break it but he doesn’t know how, doesn’t know if Duke wants to break it, where to starts or if it’s even worth it. He’s hurt by Duke sometimes and he hurts him back always. They’re both searching for words, both frustrated, staring at each other and fidgeting. Jason walks away.

It takes him long minutes of manual breathing and a few tears again to calm down enough to think. The bed is quite comfortable, the room simple and well furnished. He’s only left the lamp by the bed on by now, the main light too bright for the headache he feels. The heavy window only opens a few inches, but it’s enough to let some fresh air in.

It’s been a long day. Jason can’t do this every week.

He’s got his laptop with him but forgot to save the wifi login back in the library. He feels like an idiot now. He would feel worse to ask. Luckily his phone has data and he’s downloaded some podcasts to listen to the past few days, things that calm him enough to sleep or at least rest his nerves. He asks Kyle if he’s free to talk and this idiot texts back: ‘_Driving’_. Jason misses him. Misses tobacco, misses the streets. He knows he doesn’t _really_ miss the streets, it comes to him sometimes is all, whatever _it_ is—he cannot tell. He’s too tired. Between this and the anxious waves in his ribcage, he’s fading.

He moves to sit in the very center of the bed, above the green blanket. Opens his hands wide. Palms down. More breathing. Back straight. Shoulders relaxed.

It’s working. He’s been better at it, lately. He’s had to do it more too.

It is barely eight thirty but he could use laying down. He slept three hours at best last night, worried as he was about this visit to the Waynes. He played scenario after scenario in his head until even the nausea and the trembling disappeared, replaced came morning by a constant headache and a fair bit of distance between his body and himself.

He lays down. He’ll visit the bathroom later and find put his backpack against the door inside. If he attaches his key a certain way on the handle, they’ll wake him up if someone enters. He’s done so many times. He keeps the light of his laptop on a minimum and starts playing a podcast series on cheap domestic hacks. He must prepare for after. Must find a _job_.

He forgot most of the first episode although he already listened to it some days ago, so he starts it again. He’d wear his earphones to maximize the chance of the sound not annoying anyone else nor having him be scolded, however weighting it against his need to keep his ears wide open so he can prepare against any threat in the hallway, he elects to position the sound bar where he believes a good compromise is. Besides, there’s no one on that side of the hallway tonight, since Dick Grayson is out of town. Jason doesn’t care that people hear him listen to the things he’s downloaded.

He browses social media on his phone, asks Kyle if he’ll be free soon, reads the news, forgets to listen to the podcast. But the voices and the low music help him remain calm. The house creaks at time, he knows it’s not to be feared but it still make shim shiver each time.

At nine fifteen, he visits the bathroom with pajama pants and a big t-shirt in hand. The place is more cramped than it thought it would be. He finds the toiletries and toothbrush left for him on top of a drawer, again accompanied by a post-it with his name.

He checks the whole room. The mess. He wants to organize all that, wants to create peace, instead a breath catches in his throat when he sees something he mistakes for a microphone. Turns out it’s just some make-up tool. He looks for cameras, holes in the wall—anything. He won’t change in the room, he has the same fears there than he has here except the space is bigger, has a window to the outside, no lock… there is a rationale here. Jason has his reasons.

He brushes his teeth, washes his face, and changes into his night outfit. In the reflection the mirror brings, the bags under his eyes and the scraps on his lower lips add years to the image of himself he has in mind. It’s conflicting alright.

Back to the room again, he slips under the cover, turns on the laptop and plays the podcasts back. He also decides to try and message Duke, doesn’t matter about what. He unlocks his phone and sees that Kyle answered him with potential dates to when they could meet, there are four options so far, Jason will have to discuss it with Clark. To know this meeting is soon happening makes him feel a bunch of ways. It’s homesickness, or something like that

He opens his conversation with Duke and thinks about what to say. He isn’t good with these things. There’s only one thing he thinks to ask, at this point that might be slightly better than nothing.

‘How was space?’

‘Vast. You’d have liked it.’ A minute, then: ‘Can’t sleep?’

‘For now.’ Jason hears another noise, normal stuff in normal houses; but this is not a normal house. ‘We sure there’s no ghost here?’

‘Call me if you see one.’

He hopes not to need that. Enough problems with the living. He considers it for give or take five minutes and ultimately sends Tim a good night message. He’s do the same for Bruce, but he doesn’t have his number. He’s not sure he _can_ have his number; again, this is _Bruce Wayne_. Jason ignores what it means most of the time and how he got himself tangled in this strange spot in life, yet reality remains. And it terrifies him so.

Still, it’s impolite not to thank a host. Jason wants no problem with the Waynes, with anyone really. He texts Clark to ask him to transmit a goodnight message to Bruce, and after that turns off the sound and data off his phone for the night. He’s too tired to fight. He shuts off the lamp and unplugs his laptop so it can die in a couple hours on its own. He falls asleep in no time.

The night isn’t without instances of Jason’s nerves jolting his body awake. He goes through a nightmare at one point, a scene in which he can’t move and can’t save a woman calling his name before everything turns to flames. He can’t recognize the voice, he forgot what his mom sounded like. Four o’clock on his phone. He wants to visit the bathroom but holds this silly conviction that as soon as his feet will touch the floor, something or someone will grab his ankles and never let go, this will be it. His eyes can’t even see the room well at this hour, save for the phosphorescent strap on the side of his backpack that tells him this hasn’t been moved since Jason placed it there before going to bed. It comforts him a little.

Twenty minutes later, phone in hand with the light function on, Jason locks himself in the bathroom, washes his hands twice, brushes his teeth again. The big-ish wound above the knuckle on his right major finger is glistening and wet. Must have been scratched it in his sleep. He now isn’t so annoyed anymore that Clark had the idea of sneaking band-aids and a travel-sized bottle of disinfectant into his backpack, yesterday morning, before they got in the car.

He sleeps back some, not much at once, three hours in small parts. He hears several doors open and close between six fifty and seven forty-five, however his curiosity is low here and his legs, lazy for now. Clark wrote him back with wishes of good night and good dreams from both himself and Bruce. He also attached a number there. Best to ignore this. Tim wrote back as well and promises Jason that today, he’ll team up with him in the videogame tournament Damian and Duke have planned. Jason finds it frustrating that he and Tim have had kind of a good relationship so far, yet neither of them know how to develop it well. Perhaps they just need time. He accepts the offer.

He gets up at eight thirty. Bathroom again. Washing his hands. Can’t leave the mirror as dirty as it is right now. He walks through the manor in his pants, a fresh top, a gray sweater and two pairs of socks. In the morning light and this calm, he almost feel like a prince. Not exactly his thing.

He expects several people in the kitchen, Alfred at least, the animals perhaps. It’s not who he finds there.

“Good morning, Jason.”

“Mister Wayne.”

Bruce is sitting at the end of the table, toast on a plate and jam right by it. He is wearing a beige long-sleeve shirt and He is sipping on black coffee and reading a brochure of sorts.

“Did you sleep well?”

“I did. Alfred made the room cosy.”

Bruce puts on a grin. There’s a glint in his eyes. “He sure works miracles. He even caught that owl…” At this, he grimaces briefly. Jason can’t help but imagining something grim, something that in his mind does not seem Alfred-like. Bruce takes one look at him and raises a hand to calm him down. “He released it in the forest. I’m doubtful this will be the end of this story, but… we’ll see.”

Jason lets out a breath of relief and starts looking for something to drink. First, water. Then… coffee? Half a cup here. He’ll put milk for the other half. Bruce or someone else has laid out cups on the counter. Jason grabs one and hopes it doesn’t belong to anybody in particular. Bruce opens the jar of jam.

“I’m afraid I must work today,” he states, “but I’ll join you all for lunch and tea.”

“Copy that. I’ll stay out of your way.”

Bruce ticks at that. He seems confused in a way. Jason shrugs and turns his back to him. He’ll hear if the guy gets up, he’s close to the door, it’s okay. His escape route is safe. He pours coffee in the cup and takes milk from the fridge to get a full drink. The milk will make it too cold, though, so Jason decides to use the steamer attached to the coffee maker. It could do the trick, with the added bonus of foam.

“Everything okay at Clark’s?” Bruce asks. It’s hard to judge his tone.

“It’s fine. It’s not for long.”

“It’s not?” This time, surprise comes through

Jason is confused here. Of course it’s not for long, he’s close to being eighteen. Could Bruce not know this? Believe he’s younger? Most unlikely. Choosing caution, Jason turns around and asks:“Why would it be?”

Bruce doesn’t answer, only stares are him. Because he isn’t watching closely as he extracts it from the jar, he drops jam from the spoon and onto the back of his right hand. Nothing to fuss about, still quite inconvenient. Also unfortunate. Jason bites on his lower lip lightly so he doesn’t smirk nor reopen the cut there just yet. Instead, he focuses his attention back to his cup. He’s never used a steamer before, but Alfred showed him how to operate it last time. He thinks he can do it right.

Behind him Bruce gets up and comes by the sink to wash his hands. Jason ignores him at first. He dips the end of the steamer into the coffee and rotates the mechanism just like Alfred explained. It works. Thirty seconds. Though he knows he should keep focusing on this, to see from the corner of his eye Bruce push both his sleeves back and put soap on his hands _before_ putting them under water has Jason a little intrigued. He steals a glance at Bruce’s hands; quickly, he finds himself _staring_.

There are marks on Bruce’s forearms, healed cuts here and there, scars Jason can see. His hands are fine. The rest, it’s unclear. He never wants to speak about any of this.

The moment passes fast, ten seconds at most. By some good luck, despite the inattention, Jason’s drink is alright. Bruce doesn’t appear to have noticed Jason’s indiscretion. He is sitting back on his chair and keeps on reading the brochure. His toast are getting cold.

The bowl full sugar pieces isn’t on the table nor on the counter. Jason asks where it could be and Bruce tells him it’s maybe in the cupboard upper left from where he stands. It’s not.

“My bad,” the man sighs. “I don’t use sugar. Try on the right?”

It’s in there indeed, however right after Jason lets a piece fall into his cup, he hears a cat—Robin?—meow in what could be panic in the next room. He gets there at once.

It _was_ Robin, this tiny goof. Jason finds him at the bottom of a very deep vase, unable to get out. He helps the beast up of course, teases him and hugs him afterwards. His heart is still beating fast and it’s not because of the cat and the small panic he caused.

Duke enters the room and, noticing them, makes a beeline toward the pair. He’s still in his pajamas under an open blue cardigan. He looks almost happy to see them. “Good morning.”

“Hey. I’m sorry.” Jason doesn’t know what to add.

Duke squints. “_For_?” Jason hesitates. Getting closer to him so to be able to give Robin scratches under the chin, Duke smirks and whispers, eyes narrowed and playfully imitating Jason’s voice: ”For being a _pain_.”

“I’m gonna fight you again.”

“Okay but _after_ breakfast. I’m starving, man...”

Jason allows him that.


End file.
